Co-written with the one-woman nebula that is
merisunshine36 and
cross-posted at her Dreamwidth journal.
Characters: Enterprise crew, Spock/Uhura/OFC, Winona, Sarek
Summary: 16.45 years after Vulcan's destruction, the last light from Vulcan shines on an Earth on the verge of war, and on Starfleet officers facing decisions on whether to confront the enemy or seek out new life.
Warnings: No sexual content, but discussion of reproductive issues.
Length: 13K
Deepest gratitude to our beta readers,
shuuki_chan, subduer of semicolons, and
sail_aweigh, mistress of military protocol. Thank you so much, friends!
Date: Saturday, July 25, 2274
Time: 0952, Pacific Standard Time
Location: San Francisco, CA, Earth
Starfleet Academy, Newton Building
Winona Kirk smooths her uniform and brushes back her hair, which in more than sixty years has never learned to behave.
She spots a tall figure on a balcony above the atrium, silhouetted by the early morning light. Even without the long, slightly iridescent robes, it is unmistakable.
Winona thinks that she should hurry up to meet him before she’s spotted, then assures herself that there’s no need to be nervous. She’s met Sarek at least a dozen times over the years, and he seems to respect her abilities, as she respects his. She’s always found Vulcans easy to work with, easier in many ways than humans. The sense of constantly being judged that her colleagues complain about has never bothered her. She attributes it to insecurity, a feeling Winona is a stranger to, at least where work is concerned.
Plenty of other people have doubted her, which is why it’s surprising, exciting, and suspicious that she’s been given this mission--the most important of her checkered career. This morning's meeting is a referendum on the mission, but it's hard not to feel that it's a judgment on her as well.
She gives a final tug on her tunic and runs quickly up the stairs. Sarek is there to greet her at the top. He takes her hand lightly and bows over it, a gallant Human gesture, a tribute, Winona thinks, to infrequent but cordial meetings over the years and the close relationship of their sons.
“It’s good to see you again, Councilor Sarek. Please let me offer my condolences again on the loss of the Lady Sahn’pel.” It’s been more than two years since the death of Sarek's second wife, in Winona’s experience a uniquely difficult time; she’s not sure if the infallibility of Vulcan memory makes it better or worse.
“Thank you, Commander.” Sarek seems genuinely appreciative. “It is fortunate that the loss to my family has been balanced in some respects by a recent addition.”
Winona smiles a little uncertainly. She'd heard that Sarek had a hand in engineering the plural marriage of his only son to Saiehnn, a young Vulcan instructor at the Academy, but the details surrounding that particular match are a mystery. Sarek may approve of only one of Spock's mates, but if so, which one?
“I am most grateful that you agreed to lead this mission, Commander. In addition to the many medical and logistical challenges, it has been a matter of some controversy on New Vulcan.”
“So I’ve heard.” And indeed she has-a series of blistering video messages from New Vulcan’s leading obstetrician, as well as the more diplomatic expressions of concern from the High Council and some members of the Federation Commission on New Vulcan.
“I regret that we lack the unity of purpose that once allowed us to accomplish scientific projects of great scope. At such times I particularly appreciate the leadership and boldness shown by certain members of Starfleet, among whom I include you, Commander.”
Winona inclines her head a little, accepting what is a great compliment. She thinks how humiliating it must be for Vulcan civilization, once a beacon to the galaxy, to be a supplicant, dependent on Federation aid, its internal squabbles and grievances on public display. It may be less so for Sarek, whose admiration for human culture has given the Federation not one but two of its most famous citizens.
“Can I assume that your opinion hasn’t changed, then? I wouldn’t be comfortable with this plan in any case if I didn’t believe it had your support. But I really don’t want any surprises this morning.” It’s a suitably Vulcan understatement. The discreetly named Subcommittee on Population is acrimonious on ordinary days, let alone when debating final approval on a controversial project.
“Indeed it has not. The more I reflect on the political ramifications, the more convinced I am that it is the correct decision. Neither the Federation nor the Romulans are prepared for all-out war, but both are militarizing rapidly. A stable, populous New Vulcan will do a great deal to redress the current imbalance.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that, Councilor.”
From below comes a steadily building murmur as the subcommittee members and their guests filter, unhurried, into the commission chamber, coffee cups clinking, the background noise of Starfleet bureaucracy.
To her surprise, Sarek holds out an arm to her, a ghost of a smile on his face. “As I know your motives are unblemished, Commander, you have my full support. And now, as I believe the Standard phrase has it, it is time for the show.”
Time: 1011 hours
Location: Officer's Barracks, South Campus
Uhura peers into the hallway outside of the bedroom for a third time only to find that the door panel is still sealed shut. Saiehnn, the young girl who volunteered to be the bearer of Spock's children, has locked herself into the bathroom for unknown reasons that have now occupied her for the last hour. Uhura is supposed to meet Chris Chapel for coffee before she leaves at 1200 hours to present a paper at the Federation Council on Endocrinology's annual conference in Paris. But at this rate, Chris will have left and returned before Uhura even gets to brush her teeth.
She plucks her robe from the back of the chair where she'd tossed it earlier and cinches it tight around her waist before stepping out into the narrow hallway and crossing the short distance to the bathroom door. The apartment is a utilitarian affair assigned to them by Starfleet, notable only for its clean lines, drab colors, and complete lack of personality. Uhura hates it, but Spock didn't think it would be logical to rent out another place in the three months they plan to be on Earth before shipping out again.
"Saiehnn," she calls softly, "are you okay in there?" Uhura wonders if she's having the Vulcan equivalent of a panic attack--she's usually in and out in under twenty minutes before setting off to her lab or to one of the few classes she teaches. Saiehnn is as even-keeled as they come, but Uhura has a sneaking suspicion that immense weight of the role she’s signed up for must be a bit overwhelming sometimes.
The silence on the other side of the door grows larger as the seconds pass. Uhura starts to wonder if she should use one of the emergency overrides to force the door when it slowly slides open.
To Uhura's immense relief, Saiehnn seems whole and unharmed-with the exception of her hair. It's a storm cloud of flyaways and tangles ending somewhere past the rigid set of her shoulders. She winds a strand around her long fingers and looks at it disdainfully.
"Prior to her death, my eldest sister T'Pring took responsibility for the care and maintenance of my hair. When I first relocated to the colony, I cut it all off-it was illogical to spend time on personal grooming when there was still insufficient food or housing available." Her prominent eyebrows draw together slightly. "Today I require a traditional hairstyle, but the task far exceeds my skill level. This is…a problem."
Uhura bites back a smile. Her own hair is short now, a sleek fall of obsidian ending just below her chin, but she kept it long for many years despite the undeniable fact that it was often a nuisance in the field.
"I have a little bit of experience in the long hair department. May I help?" She holds her hand out for the hairbrush in Saiehnn's hand.
Uhura lets out the little breath she'd been holding when it lands solidly in her palm. For the past month, their relationship with Saiehnn has been cordial, if distant. She trades conversation easily with them at the dinner table, but it hasn't gone beyond that. Uhura is at a bit of a loss as to what to do here-it would have been nice if political unions came with a book of guidelines. Should she stand back and let things happen as they may? Lock her in a bedroom with Spock? Wait for his next pon farr and let it do the talking for them?
"You look lovely with your hair down." Uhura squeezes into the cramped bathroom and begins damage assessment. Saiehnn is uncommonly tiny for a Vulcan, the result of growing up on meager rations shipped in by Starfleet until the colony had the resources to produce food from a standard Vulcan diet. The bulk of what made it in was engineered for alien physiology and difficult to digest.
"I know," she replies. Uhura can't help but laugh a little at her frank acceptance of her own assets.
Saiehnn points to the PADD resting on the edge of the sink, currently set to an instructional video on traditional Vulcan hairstyles. "Here-I found this in the cultural archives. It will help you."
They pass the next few minutes in silence, Uhura pinning up various sections of Saiehnn's dark hair and frowning at the video as Saiehnn sits patiently. Eventually, it starts to look less like a nest of tribbles and more like the stylized work of art showcased by the vid model.
They are neither friends nor lovers, but it’s a strangely intimate moment. The small room leaves no space between them, and Uhura can feel the heat radiating from the young girl's body. The rasp of the hairbrush plays a steady counterpoint to the cadence of the voice on the video. At one point Saiehnn's eyes drift shut, and she begins to lean backwards until Uhura gently pushes her upright again.
"Saiehnn," Uhura begins hesitantly, "why did you agree to this? I admit, I can't imagine why such a talented young woman would agree to put her life on hold to satisfy the political whims of the old guard."
"It was necessary." There's the tiniest tightening in her shoulders when Uhura encounters a particularly stubborn snarl. "Spock is a figurehead--a legend, even. The traditionalists want as many Vulcan children as possible, and they would not have approved of his having offspring without the benefit of the marriage bond."
Uhura thinks of the sour-faced officiants that presided over her own ceremony, and she can't help but agree.
“And why make things more difficult for yourself if you don't have to?" Uhura mutters, half to herself.
"Your assessment is correct. I have already given to the colony in other ways-construction, my work with the cultural archives and healers-this is not a hardship. And…I find your company agreeable."
Uhura tries to parse what Saiehnn really means by agreeable, and fails. It's easy for her to read Spock at this point, but Saiehnn is a blank slate. "I always suspected that Spock might be asked to take a Vulcan wife at some point. So don't worry that I'll wake up one morning and forcibly eject you from the apartment."
"Worry is one of your human emotions," is her automatic reply. Uhura suspects that she uses this defense often now that she's immersed in life on Earth.`
"I know, but I'm just saying-we're here to support you, okay?"
Saiehnn makes a pained face at Uhura's overtly sentimental testimony. Uhura just rolls her eyes, and reaches for more of the creme Saiehnn uses to conquer the strands of hair continually bent on escape. Apparently, some things never change.
Location: Founder's Walk, Central Campus
Time: 1224 hours
"Oof," grunts Pavel. A long-legged blur dressed in cadet reds catches him on the shoulder while barreling across the quad to their next class. Pavel is about to lose his battle with gravity and end up with a shirtful of hot coffee but for Sulu, who hauls him back into an upright position.
“Watch it there, will ya?”
Even in his ratty gardening clothes, Hikaru commands enough authority that the cadet shrinks backward, an embarrassed expression on his sweat-flushed face.
“Sorry, dude, it was like you came out of nowhere," the kid replies.
“It’s nothing.” Pavel reclaims his arm, scowling.
Obnoxious cadets are the sixth item on his list of reasons why he hates being back in San Francisco. Positions one through five are occupied by the admirals who sit on the search committee that rejected his application to become chair of the stellar cartography department, despite having more publications to his name at age 33 than most of the department has at 50.
“Still got that rejection on your mind?” asks Hikaru. He's always had this unique ability to reach into Pavel's brain and pull out the one topic he wants to discuss the least. It would be touching, if it weren't annoying as hell.
“No,” Pavel lies, and continues to drown his sorrows in a pool of scalding hot caffeine.
They resume their stroll across campus, careful to avoid any more run-ins with guided cadet missiles. Pavel is enjoying their morning outing; the Enterprise is up for a refit and the bridge crew have all been occupied with meetings and interviews scheduled by admirals eager to get their hands on them while they're back on Earth. Until Hikaru showed up at Pavel's door this morning, insisting that they go for brunch and a trip to the campus gardens, Pavel hadn't seen much of him at all.
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. You know these things are all about politics.”
“I never wanted to be stuck in an office on Earth, anyway.”
"But you said--"
"I only did it because you said it was time that I moved on. At some point, you'll have to hang up your phaser for good, Pavel. You’re not 17 anymore, Pavel."
"It was just a suggestion! You don't have to go anywhere. I mean, look at Scotty. He'll be sticking with the Enterprise until she's a heap of scrap metal set to be repurposed into replicator parts. I don't think he's left spacedock since we got back to Earth."
Pavel's been on a starship since he was 17. The dull clang of his boots against the deck plating and the smell of recycled oxygen make him feel at home. But extended shore leave means there’s no one to beam him back in three days to the comforting familiarity of his quarters and a lab space where no one can touch anything without his permission.
"If the captain is promoted, I'll practically be homeless."
Hikaru pulls back, his brown eyes wide. "Wait, you know something about that?"
"Hikaru, if you would just pull your head out of the dirt for once--"
"And by that you mean, hacking through multiple security clearances to get into other people's messages?"
"A technicality," Pavel says, waving away Hikaru's concern. "But yes, the odds are very high that the next time Kirk leaves Earth, it won't be on the Enterprise. They want her out in the Neutral Zone."
"Romulus." He comes to a halt. "Shit. I was hoping it wouldn't come to that. What are they gonna do with Kirk?"
Pavel shrugs. "I don't know. Fleet Admiral Gupta's password changes every hour and I didn't feel like figuring out the next one so I could keep reading."
"Well, are you committed? If you re-up for another five, they're going to want you out on the front lines. You're one of their best navigators."
A tug on his sleeve steals Chekov's thoughts away. He glances down and sees that someone has splintered off from the teeming cadet horde and is trying to get his attention.
"Hey! Astronomy Club's hosting a final viewing of Vulcan, tonight at 2000 hours. You'll be there, right?" The words spin past his ears so quickly that he barely understands what is being said.
The speaker is an Orion female, first or second year cadet most likely, her dark hair styled in a short pixie cut that highlights her cheekbones. She smiles and for a moment, looks so much like Gaila that he forgets out how to speak.
Hikaru gives her an answering grin. “You were saying something about a viewing?"
She bounces on the balls of her feet, excited that someone has taken the time to slow down and listen to her spiel. "We're broadcasting a live feed of the light from Vulcan as it disappears from Earth's skies. You know, to honor those who were lost. I was in charge of advertising--I put a retrospective vid up on the network in honor of Commander Chekov. It's called, Young Pioneers in the Field of Combat: How One Russian Whiz Kid Saved the Life of the Federation's Most Celebrated Captain." The look in her eyes is unfocused and a bit dreamy. "I can't believe he was assigned to his first deep space mission at seventeen!"
Chekov peers at Hikaru from the corner of his eye, only to find that his face is going through a series of painful contortions as Hikaru tries to decide whether he wants to acknowledge the gravity of the event or their ridiculous advertising scheme.
"Tell me, how can I acquire a copy of this film? I am Pavel Chekov."
The Orion girl's pink mouth softens into a skeptical frown. "Right, townie. And I discovered the intermix equation."
He's about to call her out on her blatant insubordination until he remembers that he’s in civvies today.
"Fine, forget it."
The feeling of Hikaru's hand on his shoulder stalls him as he's trying to walk away. “Come on, don’t leave. She didn't mean anything by it."
Against his better judgment he turns back, only to feel his blood pressure begin to rise at the sympathetic expression in her dark eyes. “Sorry, we get a lot of tourists this time of year. But, seriously? You meet the commonly accepted standards for attractiveness among your race-you don't have to lie to get my attention.”
“But I wasn’t…”
“Just show up and maybe I'll let you take me out for coffee afterward, okay?” She deftly plucks his communicator from where it’s tucked into his front pocket and begins paging through the menus until she finds the notepad function. He doesn’t bother telling her that he’s not interested, because it’s not likely she’d believe that, either.
"Don't be late. We're starting exactly on time!" Her parting words are accompanied by a little wave as she runs off to snare her next unsuspecting target.
"Woo! Hot date," Hikaru crows, his face red with laughter.
"Hikaru, I will kill you one of these days. You will step into a transporter beam, and never be seen again."
"Right. So when are you going tell her that you're a celebrity?"
Location: Starfleet Medical
Time: 1327 hours
It takes Winona more than half an hour to track down Leonard McCoy. The Enterprise crew has scattered to the winds during the three-month refitting--to home and family, briefly, and then back to Starfleet, which is never short on ways to occupy them.
She finds him in the Xenopathology Lab, suited up, wearing goggles and on the other side of an airlock, but Winona would know those expressive eyes anywhere. He gives her a wave and comms that he'll be out in 10 minutes.
He emerges stripped down to blue scrubs, head bare and revealing a new spattering of gray at his temples. He accepts her hug and kiss on the cheek with the bemused combination of best-friend's-mom and not-that-much-older-woman that's been between them for more than a decade. She loves all of Jim's bridge crew, but none more than Leonard, who shares both her idealism about the mission and her cynicism about the bureaucracy.
"Jim said you were coming to town, but I didn't expect to see you so soon. Can I buy you lunch?" It's a gentle joke, since meals are free to all personnel.
"I'd like that. Maybe the sushi cart in in the Biodome? I'm going to have my fill of white tablecloths in the next few weeks."
"Ah, yes, the joys of a Vulcan committee: locked in a small room with argumentative bastards who eat once a day, sleep four hours a night, and never met a four-dimensional scatter plot they didn't like." She laughs and lets him lead the lead the way, already feeling some of the tension from the morning leave her neck and shoulders.
Fifteen minutes later, they're sharing a small table under the bobbing fronds of a Circassian fig tree. Winona watches Leonard knock back sashimi and green tea with the efficiency of someone who's always short on calories, caffeine and time.
"What's up? Jim said you were working with the Commission on New Vulcan, but he didn't say on what."
Winona nibbles at the edge of her hand roll, hesitant. "Well. They've asked me to manage the Teslau Project."
"Teslau? That Frankenstein stuff? Don't tell me they're trying to drag you into that!"
Winona's heart sinks. "I see I'm not going to have to beg for your honest opinion."
"Sorry, sorry. I can't comment on the science; I've been up to my eyeballs in Rigellian influenza, and when I'm not in the lab I've got a suspicious number of admirals wanting to take me out to lunch. Anyhow, I haven't had time to review any of the research, but I'm dubious about the motivations. Trying to breed ourselves a bunch of extra Vulcans because we can't manage our own affairs without them is a shitty reason to tinker with a species' physiology and culture."
"But we've done it throughout human history--not always for the best reasons, I'll admit, but zero population growth has been working well for the past two hundred years, and it's hardly the natural state of things."
"Suppressing fertility is simple. Trying to get Vulcan females to have litters like cats is quite another."
She makes a face at the crude metaphor. "It's not litters. It's more frequent, and more frequently multiple, births. You know that, and that kind of talk doesn't help matters."
Leonard arches an eyebrow, trying to get a smile out of her. "I'm sorry, but we don't get to decide when we're animals and when we're higher-order beings. I know that Vulcans act like they crap rainbows, but believe me, they're mammals like the rest of us. And there's a lot about their evolutionary history, as well as their biology, that we don't know and they don't either."
"The clinical trials have been going on for more than a year, and they've been as rigorous as can be expected, considering the short time line and the limited number of Vulcans available. Leonard, you have to know that I wouldn't be involved if I thought there were any danger to individual women or to Vulcan society as a whole."
"Well, of course not," he says, almost in reproach. "But controlled experiments can't tell you what the effects are going to be over a few years or a few generations. Humans are adaptable; Vulcans aren't. They're a transplant species, possibly specifically designed for the monoenvironmental planet they were introduced to--a planet that, by the way, they're not living on any more. Maybe we should take the lower birthrate on New Vulcan and the bumper crop of new diseases as a hint to slow down, not an invitation to artificially increase the birthrate."
"So we do what--let Vulcan civilization dwindle away to nothing?" Winona puts down her o-hashi, losing her appetite. She'd expected--and gotten--a long disquisition on Vulcan physiology and cultural traditions, heavy on skepticism of Federation research, from the Vulcan science commissioners. She didn't expect Leonard's bald and seemingly knee-jerk appeal to nature and destiny.
"Of course not. But there's a big, huge planet full of healthy Romulans, fully hybridizable with Vulcans, and very capable of acting as surrogates."
"Leonard! You're not a Reunificationist?"
Leonard raises his hands in self-defense. "I stay as far away from politics as I can, but when you've got a thriving, populous Empire with plenty of planets left to settle, it sure as hell seems like the path of least resistance compared to trying to artificially goose the Vulcan population on some bumfuck hinterland planet."
"Of course." Winona sips her half-cold tea, which seems more astringent than usual. "With the minor problem that we're on the verge of war with the Romulans. Nothing would make them happier than finding out it could take Vulcan a hundred years or more to reemerge as a galactic power."
"I'm sorry, but that seems a lot more fixable to me than fundamentals of biology and culture. Hell, what do I know? I'm just a doctor. People come to me after they break things; they're usually not interested in my opinion on how not to break them in the first place."
"Present company excepted."
Leonard inclines his head. "And I appreciate it. If you were looking for advice, that's probably not what you wanted to hear. At least you listened, unlike some Starfleet officers I could mention."
"Don't fail to mention them on my account." They trade a smile; Winona gets a flash of white teeth and a reminder that Leonard can be a charming man when he tries to be.
"Tell you what--share a dish of ice cream with me and I'll be happy to complain about them in detail, starting with your son. Speaking of which, where's he been? Jo's club is having a thing tonight. The S.O.B. said he'd put in an appearance, and I haven't heard boo from him in the last couple of days."
"Wrapped up in meetings, so he says. All anybody fucking does around here is sit in meetings." Leonard grins back at her. "And yes, I curse--don't look so pleased about it. The further away I get from this rock the more of it I do. Just one of the reasons I can't wait to get back into space."
Leonard excuses himself and comes back a few minutes later with a dish, two spoons, and a cup of black coffee. It's the kind of easy collegiality she's enjoyed on space stations, and has so rarely felt here. She wonders if it's something she'll experience with her new team, who are going to be more than half Vulcan and working on the Vulcan Science Academy campus.
"So what about you? Sticking with the Enterprise, or hoping for the «i»Excelsior«/i»?"
He rolls his eyes skyward. "God bless the 'Fleet rumor mill. No, I don't get excited at the prospect of shinier toys. And heading into the Neutral Zone? I don't know. It might be time to go somewhere quiet and collect that generous Starfleet pension. Somewhere they've never heard of transporters or warp drives or Romulans."
She nods, not believing him. Leonard's oft-spoken desire to be a country doctor is no different than her daydreams of being a farmer in Iowa, and she guesses both fantasies begin with telling the Admiralty to shove it.
Winona takes a spoonful of ice cream, so cold and sweet it makes her teeth ache. "When you find that place, send me a postcard."
Location: Officers' Quarters, South Campus
Time: 1445 hours
“Spock!” Uhura calls out to him from the doorway of the the apartment as she tries to kick off her shoes and balance the load she's carrying at the same time. Her face is obscured by an enormous burst of dahlias in orange, white, and a deep midnight blue that only occurs under the influence of skilled lab technicians. She's picked them up at the little flower stall nearby in an effort to brighten up the place a bit, and now she can't go any further than their makeshift study without dropping them or the PADD that's tucked beneath her arm.
Spock smoothly removes the flowers from her grasp, his fingers briefly pressing against hers. The shirt he's wearing is open at the neck, and she smiles to herself a little-he never would have caught himself in such a casual state of undress when they first met.
"I do not understand the purpose of purchasing floral decorations that will simply die in a matter of days," he says by way of greeting.
She counters the familiar argument with, "I like them, and that's all you need to understand."
Uhura can't resist bringing her hands up to play with the edges of his open collar, and is pleased to find that after all these years, the simple gesture still makes the tips of his ears take on a faint olive hue.
Her smile slips a bit when she notices the files currently being projected in the study: charts, graphs, diagrams, and all of it containing information about Vulcan fertility. She brushes past him into the room, and spends a moment skimming the endless streams of data.
"This is all information on the Teslau Project, isn't it?" She turns to face him; the bluish light of the projection is distorted by the gentle curvature of her cheekbones. "Don't tell me you're seriously considering this as an option."
Spock carefully sets the flowers down on the desk and folds his hands behind his back. "The likelihood of existing technology or...traditional methods resulting in successful conception with Saiehnn is 13.27 percent. We must take every option into consideration."
Uhura knows she shares her bed not only with Spock, but the phantom presence of Vulcan societal opinion. The question of how they'll react has dogged their every step--from Spock's choosing a post on the Enterprise over the colony, to Uhura's decision to focus on her career instead of taking a leave of absence to go through the endless rounds of hormone therapy required for her to have children.
"I hate when you talk about it like that." She wraps her arms around herself and peers at the information onscreen. She can't focus; the words and numbers all swim together in front of her eyes.
"You know that I value your opinion, Nyota." He stands close behind her, and she finds some solace in the warm press of his body against her back.
"I know this isn't just about us, or Saiehnn even. But still..."
He pulls up another screen for her. "Current research shows the hormone therapy to be both safe and effective in producing more frequent conception in the Vulcan female, including multiple births."
Uhura shakes her head in refusal. "This is all untested science we're talking about here. We don't know anything about the long term consequences of any of this. Saiehnn is only 28...don't you think we should wait?"
His long fingers move quickly across the surface of one of the PADD screens and one by one, the diagrams disappear from view.
"She has passed through her first pon farr and is fully capable of carrying a child to term. Remember that I was also the result of genetic experimentation-there can be no reward without risk."
"Spock!" She turns so abruptly that there is a soft tinkling from the tiny silver chains looped through her ears. Her nails cut sharply into the skin of her palms as she tries to rein in her anger. “This is Saiehnn we're talking about, not some project in one of your labs. She’s your-she's our wife."
A firm knock on the door frame steals their attention, and they both turn to find Saiehnn in the doorway, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She's taken great care with her hair all day, and every strand sits as firmly in place as when they finished it some hours ago. The height of the somewhat archaic style shows off the graceful length of her neck, which is covered by the stiff collar of her dress. Spock's recalcitrant expression softens a bit when he sees her standing there, a lyre tucked beneath one arm.
“You arguments are irrelevant, as they are based on inaccurate data." She pauses for a moment, gathering her words. "I began the hormone treatments prior to your arrival on Earth.”
Spock can't quite control the slight downturn of his mouth. "You did not inform us prior to making your decision, Saiehnn."
"I did not wish for anyone to try and stop me." She raises her chin slightly so that she's looking him directly in the eye. "My classmates perished as the walls in our school fell upon them. My family is gone, and our elders still ask for death so that they might be relieved from the burden of their memories. The current birthrate would have us become extinct in less than three centuries. If I wish to see the survival of my race--then I do not believe it was ever my decision to make."
"Saiehnn, we apologize." Uhura's heart can't help but twist a bit in this moment. Saiehnn reminds her so much of herself at that age. "We shouldn't have been discussing this without you."
"I understand-your human emotions cloud your judgment." She adjusts the instrument so that it rests more securely beneath her arm. "My purpose in coming was to inform you that I am performing this evening at an event in commemoration of the loss of Vulcan. As my husband and wife, your presence is required."
Without waiting for an answer, she turns to leave, flashes of gold embroidery peeking out from the coffee-colored skirts of her robes.
Stunned, Uhura turns to her partner. "I think we've just been given an order."
He looks down at her, a single raised eyebrow indicating his amusement. "Commander Uhura, I agree with your assessment-and I anticipate that this will not be the last time."
Location: Cochrane Hall, Admiral Pike's office
Time: 1502 hours
Darcy spots Pike's visitor before he does, lifting her old white head and pointing her nose toward the door.
"How's my good girl?" Kirk bends down to run a hand between her ears and she thumps her tail a few times against the rug, something she doesn't do for many people anymore. It's been years since she's been a working service dog, even more since Pike has needed her to be, but the thought that she won't be with him forever makes his chest ache. She's been part of his life almost as long as the man staring at him from across his desk with bright, shrewd blue eyes.
"I've already had lunch and I approved those subspace driver coils you requisitioned, so I'm going to assume this is about something else." Kirk just raises an eyebrow. "Fine. You're here about the mission to Vulcan."
"Is it partial bullshit or complete bullshit?" Well, Pike thinks, that didn't take long. He wonders who spilled the 'Fleet's best-kept secret, and how badly he or she has underestimated Kirk.
"The science? I have no idea. The project is legit, if that's what you're asking. Maybe they hurried it along by a month or six, but the New Vulcan Commission is quite serious. They want the population doubled in 20 years."
"And they're sending me on a science mission while Earth is on a heightened security alert?" Kirk crosses and uncrosses his legs impatiently, an old habit.
Pike knows part of the Admiralty's position and can guess the rest. He shouldn't be telling Kirk, but that's the least of his worries. He doesn't know how he can tell this man, whose first act in the captain's chair was to save the Earth, that he's being forced out of it. Another two months and they may have this in common: they'll be desk jockeys and ex-captains of the Enterprise. Whether Kirk can survive that personally is one question; whether the Federation can is another.
"It's a nice day," Pike says, even though it isn't. "Why don't we take a walk?" Kirk gets it, of course; he's out of the chair and fidgeting by the door before Pike can engage his anti-grav device to lever himself to a standing position.
Darcy hauls herself to her feet, fanning her tail, still game to answer the call of duty. Pike guesses she's the only one who's going to enjoy this walk.
"So this mission to New Vulcan gets me out of the way while they move their pieces around? Decker gets the Enterprise, Al-Sania gets the Excelsior, and I get to sit behind a desk listening to complaints from assholes like me?"
Kirk is handling the news better than Pike expected, but then maybe he's in shock. Pike knows the feeling.
"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. And promotion to admiral isn't exactly the scrap heap of history."
"It is when all the action's going on in the Romulan system."
"You'll be in charge of the exploratory and science missions. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Pike knows that's not at all what Kirk wanted, but he's making a point.
"I don't know what I want, except that it's not war with Romulus. And I don't want the Enterprise turned into a battleship. And my crew--I've got to let them know. If they sign on--"
"You can't tell anyone, Jim. They're smart enough to manage their own careers. Starfleet's not like some ancient army--not yet, anyway. They can resign or put in for transfer if they don't like it."
Kirk gives a huff and shoves his hands into his pockets. The sun's gone in and taken the warmth with it: appropriate. It's the second time he's told Kirk about a promotion on these very grounds, and the chafing lack of optimism this time around has little to do with the loss of youth.
"This is a political battle, and I suck at politics."
"Yeah, but you're good at not losing. You decide what you want to do, and let me know how I can help."
A corner of Kirk's mouth tugs up, the closest thing Pike has seen to a smile out of him in weeks. "Maybe you can send me beyond subspace comm range again?"
Pike snorts and pats him on the shoulder and watches him stride off in the direction of the Sciences Quad.
A chilly gust sweeps across the campus and Darcy whines, eager to get moving. As Pike heads back to his office he sees a few cadets setting up some kind of science project on the lawn. Another is headed toward him carrying a stack of boxes with a PADD resting precariously on top. It starts to slide off, and Pike speeds up to intercept it, catching it just as it breaks free.
"Oh, crap--thanks!" The cadet pauses to shift her load, not looking at him. "Tuck that under my arm, okay?" Pike does so, amused, as a lock of black hair falls in her eyes and she tries to toss her head without dropping everything. "Hey, you should come tonight, at 2000 hours we're going to--Admiral!"
"Cadet." He's afraid she's going to try to stand at attention, so he adds, "What's going on later? You can tell me while we walk."
It turns out she's only going as far as the lawn. She plunks the stack of boxes onto a table, and Pike sees that they're marked SAAAC.
"You're with some student organization?"
"Yes, sir. I'm president of the Academy's Amateur Astronomy Club. Linh Sullivan." She points at a thin-film display draped over the table, Vulcan's Last Light shimmering across it in blue and silver. A number appears Pike's mind: 16.45, the number of light years from Earth to Vulcan. You were an eyewitness, weren't you, sir?"
"Not really, no." He doesn't feel like telling this earnest student exactly what he was doing at the time.
She looks curious, but only nods. "Maybe you'd consider coming anyway, sir? The Vulcan Student Association is participating. Professor Saiehnn's going to play the Vulcan lyre. And, uh, we'll have cupcakes." She finishes with a sheepish smile, and Pike smiles back at her.
"Cupcakes, you say? Darcy would like that, wouldn't you, girl? Well, I can't promise, but I'll see what I can do, Cadet."
"Thank you, sir!" A few moments later--long enough, she must figure, for an old man to get out of earshot--he hears her yell, "Hey, Jo! Looks like your dad won't be the only celebrity here tonight!"
Part 2 >>