Starship On the Edge of Forever

by Trench Kamen

"If I had it to do over…" It is not a productive thought, beyond its ability to make one learn from one's mistakes and so apply those lessons forward, but Spock spent most of his later life pondering this. There was all the time in the world and there wasn't time, wasn't time, it was never the right time. And then he was gone. And then Spock got to do it over. (Kirk/Spock)

1. Let us go, then, you and I

So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.

---

The absolute silence of space—the silence you, gentle reader, can never experience, trapped in a physical body as you are, all awhirl with enzymes doing this and that and electrons shuttling about and organs pumping and thoughts thinking—is not something I can really explain to you, in any terms you would understand, without referring to that aforementioned body, but I can liken it. You'll find, more often than not, when I have to explain something like this to a human it comes out in nonsense paradoxical terms—things you can't really grasp if you think about the logic of it. But silence would be closest to two distinct sensations you might, if you try, imagine. The first, the vacuum of silence, is the whole void of space dark and vast and the pressure of your body pushing out, out against bones, an unimaginable clamor of an existence barely able to maintain its shape against a void. You define yourselves with boundaries, with gravities and barriers and walls; the absence of the barriers is excruciating; that outward pressure against the void threatens to blow your skull apart. (Do not confuse this with the physical phenomenon of pressure, although, honestly, that might help your human brain better grasp it. It must be dreadful, to have a consciousness wrapped up in so much wetware, self-defined and self-referencing always in terms of a shadow-body, even when disembodied.) Anyway, the second silence is the pressure of silence; it crushes, pushing every cell and all those tendons and bones into dust at the very core of the bone, into a singularity, a line.

Can you hold these two contrary ideas? Good; you might come just a fraction of a sliver of a percentage of the way toward understanding the vastness of existence. Now, in this bone-crushing-blasting silence, you stand in the far reaches of a lunar landscape, and above you, around you, the stars. Far from where, you ask? From everywhere, from anywhere; wherever is the furthest from you, there you are. But you are the fixed point.

If you close your 'eyes', and still your 'heart', and take the calmness into your core like a drop into a pool, you might hear something in the interval between ripples, in the infinite space between the drop hitting the pool and the sound of the water. This is the music of the spheres. Again—and I feel I must keep leading you back to this—this is not music, as you know it, sound-waves, nothing so crude. But the way human consciousness experiences music is the closest you can come to its true nature. It is not even the sound you would get taking the radio waves and the photons and pulses into sound waves; nothing so crude as this would suffice. To begin to approximate, we must go to the collective unconsciousness, the archetype, music pure of its own meaning.

From here, it sounds like four tones.

If you came this way, taking any route, starting from anywhere, you would find yourself standing on a planetoid that matched your atmosphere and your gravity. It orbits a distant star, distant from wherever you came from. It is always behind your skull when you look at the sky; it is always just out of sight, barely-glimpsed in the turning of the head toward it and then gone with focus. The unconscious knows this place. We are all linked, in a collapsed node of what was-is-will be-has always been, with this space. It is the pause between those tones, between the drop and the pool. This is time, collapsed.

If you take the shadow of this node, and stretch it taught across a squished rock frame, you stand in the shadow of the Guardian of Forever. This is a membrane of space/not-space framed in matter and casting off photons, flickering in a linear display of what was-is-will be-has always been. This is on the other side of the planet, near to you, not far from you, where you stood. But in thinking it you stand in its flickering light. In thinking it, it shows you the was-is-will be-has always been in your own unconsciousness, that of sentient beings matching your cognition, in any way you can begin to understand.

An irregularity has torn the existence casting the shadow. So, the shadow is rent, and things from all across time are oozing out of it, re-coalescing to begin from the same linear point. And, no, before you begin your vile accusation, we had nothing to do with this. Believe me, were we capable I would have done it long ago. It promises such potential for fun. But the rent is linear-not-linear, it has shape and no shape, and the deepest rent is across a set of centuries (as you would think of them), across one possible universe. But there are micro-tears, like those frizzy bits coming off lightning, reaching into the corners of other universes.

A set of centuries, all linked by a narrative—certainly this must be the work of a linear being, cutting into a dimension it cannot understand, to see such value in a unifying thread that is itself linear. Ah—so you did think of it. Let's take our newfound awareness of the vastness of space and encapsulate our awareness on this one tiny portion of existence. Let's take everything back down, small, linear, and physical.

Ah, you've found your way back into your physical body. And you're standing in front of the physical gate. And you're looking up through the glaring light at physical stars, those great big reactors throwing off photons, all cut of the same universe-cloth.

And it looks like you have nowhere to go but through.

---

This, then, was where the oxygen signature was strongest.

Spock had been crouching and staring through the window for some time now, eyes flickering frequently down to his tricorder. Portal, window—he was not sure of the proper name, as in many years of frankly astonishing and weird experiences he had never seen anything like this. For one, it was quite—subtle, he guessed would be the word. Most portal-like phenomena he had encountered were rather flashy, glowing or roaring or something like the accretion disk of a black hole. Once it was a door-shape cut of air with light like a razor wire. But this he would not have noticed, more than likely, were he not following his tricorder. It was cut of differentness. No light, no dramatics, just a change in a door-shape, as though some great hand had made a collage of a door-shaped cut of another planet-and-sky and pasted it, horizon aligned, on this planet. Even the rock had looked similar, although chemically it was quite different, as far deep as the tricorder could scan from a distance. But it was the slightest shade lighter. The sand was of a different quality. The rocks, of a smoother cut, greater worn by time.

The sky was bisected at the 'lintel' of the door like a refraction, or as through a prism, with a different set of stars. He stared at them until he could confirm they were also rotating around a different axis, and at a different rate than the planet on his side. The vast sky above him and the oblong of foreign sky he could see through the portal twisted around each other, like gears. When the ion storm passed and communication re-established with the ship, he could send visual data to be analyzed for possible location.

When he walked to the side of the door, it disappeared, collapsing into a finer and finer line and finally into one dimension when perpendicular. When he walked around the 'back' of it, it was gone. Through where it had been he saw, and the tricorder read, only chemical signatures for Dalet II. The oxygen signal he had been hunting completely disappeared. So he sat on a rock in 'front' of the door, and waited for the ion storm to clear, and watched his tricorder.

They had just finished the survey for any life signs on Dalet II when the faint, but sudden, molecular oxygen signature appeared on Spock's remote monitoring equipment on the Enterprise. It was a class D planetoid on the periphery of explored space and a mining company had made a request of the Federation to clear it for mining. Dilithium had been sensed, and a great deal other valuable metals, and the mining company was, as Mr. Scott had put it, 'breathin' down our fuckin' necks' waiting for clearance. Despite its apparent inability to harbor any life-as-we-know-it, the Federation had the duty to first remotely scan it for any signs of life. That meant sending down sensing probes, sterilized by exposure to a battery of temperatures, pressures, and radiations, and all carved of a single piece of platinum so there were no hairline joins and seams where microbes could hide from sterilization. The probes were further electromagnetically shielded in case platinum itself was toxic to any creatures. The probes were designed to sample the atmosphere, the surface, the caves, the crust, within rock, every possible environment on the planet.

Clearing a class D planet, by definition unable to harbor any life that would exhibit familiar and sure signs based on the Federation peoples' biological studies, entailed waiting for any signs of molecular change over a Terran month. Metabolism, the ability to take compounds and extract from them energy, was one of the most basic signs of 'life' as they could currently conceive it, or, at the very least, 'life' bound to such physical laws that it could be imperiled by foreign matter. There were also thermodynamic signatures, minute, sometimes angstrom-resolution releases of heat relative to background from metabolic processes. 'Life' involved organization, a decrease in entropy, and that, also, could be measured. They had set the probes, and returned after a month to find none of these signs, and were about to clear the planet when one of the still-active probes on the surface measured molecular oxygen. And Spock had to stride into the conference room, where Kirk was about to sign off on the mining operation, and tell several furious executives and one very put-upon captain that the operation was off until further notice.

So, Spock had absconded to the planet's surface, clad in a sterile suit, and left Kirk with the diplomatic headache of appeasing the executives while he searched the area of the alerting probe. Molecular oxygen, alone, was not necessarily a sign of life, but its appearance was sudden, and its presence considered a potential life-sign. Due diligence mandated he at least investigate, even if he was sure enough there was no 'life' that could be affected by his visit. He did still wear the sterile suit as a precaution.

On many planets, like Earth, and Vulcan, the atmosphere had only become oxygenated after billions of years of oxygenic photosynthesis. It was not inconceivable that a planet could come across molecular oxygen by sterile means. But this bias remained rooted in the Federation's protocols, and it was not unreasonable, given that the unique chemical nature of dioxygen rendered it one of the strongest electron acceptors known, and therefore uniquely capable of working in a higher-level organism requiring a great energy expenditure. All heretofore-encountered matter-based sentient life forms, even lithic ones like the Horta, relied upon some form of electron transport relay to generate the energy necessary to power a mind. And the potential for sentient life required even greater precautions to be taken, still, than those taken for potential lower organisms, or autocatalytic proto-life.

"Spock to bridge."

The communicator crackled in response. Spock snapped it shut and put it back on his belt. Dalet II's frequent atmospheric storms were usually brief, no more than a Terran hour in duration. He had enough oxygen left for six hours seventeen minutes plus-or-minus two minutes. He did not mind the time to think, silently, before the Enterprise came back online and he had to deal with an onslaught of questions from Kirk and more-than-likely several furious executives who demanded to be present on the bridge. There was going to be an inevitable mealy-minded debate with the executives over the sanctity of life, in all forms, even mindless microbes, and can we really be so very cautious with every planet we encounter, and is he sure this is not an instrument error, and blah blah blah blah. Blah. It would not even be a debate in good faith. Their motives would bend their every word. Spock would much rather talk ethics with somebody a bit slow and uninformed, but who was debating in good faith, than with witty and knowledgeable persons with an agenda.

Do I not too have an agenda? He watched the two skies move against each other. Am I not biased in favor of reverence for life and caution?

He had come to these biases, heuristics, of meditation on their own merits. He thought. He was pretty sure. No, he was engaging in self-deception. He was still not totally sure.

"How can you begin to understand other people, when you cannot even understand yourself?"

Spock's head snapped up. The voice was adult-male-humanoid, nasal and held close to the soft palate with the tongue. It had spoken in Vulcan. It had come from the portal. He stood and took a couple of steps toward it. His heart fluttered in his side. He switched on the tricorder's audio recorder.

"Oh, come now," said the voice. "I cannot be recorded if I do not want to be."

"I am Spock, of the United—"

"—Federation of Planets, yes, yesyesyesyes, I know the whole spiel. Commander Spock of the USS Enterprise, the half-Vulcan, half-human science officer and fully dull pedant, I must say."

"I beg your pardon?"

"There has been, right in front of you, a delightful, nay, a sublime mystery, and your response instead of going through the door is to sit and stare at it while waiting for your captain to tell you it's okay to go through!"

"I am gathering data before I step through what may well be an anomaly with no way back. And some of that analysis requires I be able to communicate with the Enterprise, which, as I am sure such an omniscient being such as yourself would know, is impossible right now."

"Good heavens, you are dull. That immature little sop was right."

There was suddenly body heat behind Spock, and flesh—presence. He turned and reached for where he guessed the neck would be as the man's hands slapped onto his wrists and pushed him toward the portal. A human, in command gold, with captain's braid, white with dark hair and a high hairline and a long, square face. And strong. The man did not even have to regain his footing or adjust when Spock lunged against him, and steadily pushed him back toward the portal.

Not a human. Not wearing any sort of protective suit, in the immediately-poisonous-to-humanoids air. The man smiled and gripped Spock's wrists harder. Spock felt him gather energy in his legs—

"Right, then. In you go!"

The man pushed, hard, and Spock stumbled back through the door.

---

The protective suit stripped from Spock like a wrapper, spiraling off into ribbons of light, as if the doorway was a sieve. He gasped without drawing in air as he slammed back first into the rock, vision going out for a moment, diaphragm locking, and finally he was able to suck air into his lungs.

Air, he realized, not toxic—this new environment was class M, oxygenic atmosphere.

"You are back."

Spock's vision was returning. What he thought was the white light of blindness was focusing, defining and polarizing, and he realized he was indeed sprawled in front of a great blinding window, slowly gaining definition. He scrabbled for his tricorder and communicator. Neither were there anymore, stripped away with the suit.

"I see that insufferable Q has seen fit to force you through me." As the voice boomed the light pulsed, and the slightly-squashed, rock oblong frame was resolving. Spock stood. The Guardian of Forever was considerably larger than the portal he had first observed. But no scenes flashed on its milky screen, this time. There was no running story, no context. Just light, moving like liquid, sparkling on the surface like sunlight on the sea.

"You cannot go back," said the Guardian. "You have been forced through a one-way door."

Spock watched the Guardian sidelong and sat gingerly on an ionic column, sheered at the base. After that fall he was going to be quite sore, for a while. The area around the Guardian was littered with junk, industrial detritus, phasers and sheered metals and uniforms he recognized and did not. All from various eras, best he could tell; there were some artifacts he recognized from before and during his own time, and some he did not, though the shapes, the form factors, allowed a good guess at function. He got the feeling that the Guardian sighed, a flicker in its window.

"The junk will only continue to pile up. Soon I will be covered in drifts of humanoid trash."

"Why did my tricorder and communicator not come through with me?"

"That, I do not know."

Spock arched his eyebrow. "You do not know."

"I do not."

"Fascinating."

"I know very little about all of this mess." The Guardian sounded almost petulant. "But the interdimensional fabric is being ripped and it all seems to open through me. And people are wandering through the holes. It is wrecking absolute havoc on the timeline."

"And they are all one-way portals, as in my case?"

"Thus far, yes. They could jump back into me but with no guarantee of where, or when, they emerge. And objects wholly-subsumed by the windows are falling through. There have been rips big enough to take up entire starships and moor them here. They have all been pilfered by others unfortunate enough to find themselves in your position. I suppose you will have to wait for another such opportunity to occur to get yourself off this planet."

"Are these Q causing the anomalies?"

The Guardian seemed to scoff, a burst of light. "That such lowly creatures were capable of manipulating me on that level. No, they merely insert themselves in situations where, for reasons of their own, there is somebody or something they want to force here and needs an extra… push, I guess you could say, when the opportunity arises."

Insofar as the Guardian could sulk, and feel sorry for itself, it very much seemed to be doing so. Spock felt a deep schadenfreude, some salve to the worry that was finally solidifying around his shock. He did not like feeling anger. Pleasure over another's pain was even worse. It was a sweet poison, never to be indulged.

"You can school your face into impassivity for other humanoids but you cannot hide your emotions from me." The Guardian had regained some of its haughtiness, perhaps finding ground in lording it over him. "Even as you try to hide them from yourself and rationalize them away. You are angry with me and find delight in my torment."

"There is no reason to feel anger. You act according to your design. Your motives, though obscure to us lower life-forms, are not from malice."

"And yet you are angry, Vulcan-Human. You blame me for hurting your friend. And you are angry at yourself for making an illogical attribution of guilt. And you are angry at yourself for allowing your affection for anybody to cloud your logic to that extent."

Jim never completely recovered. With time the scar tissue in his mind settled but when challenged with a new tragedy, a new loss, and the mind convulsed around it, it tugged like a burning brand. But scars are stronger than the tissue that surrounds them, and if one is not careful the healthy tissue will tear itself apart around the fault line. Spock often regretted not removing that scar when he erased Jim's memory of Rayna, but he could not convince himself that just because he had broken the taboo that anything he did within that was just details. He kept himself to the most pressing issue at hand, at the time.

"And yet I gave you one of the best months of your life," said the Guardian. "How do you reconcile that? You feel selfish."

The impulse to draw his hands to his neck shot down his arm. He held it steady. He knew the portal saw it.

They had worked hard. They had lived at a subsistence level and worked twelve hours a day, at backbreaking, menial labor, and Spock had come home to more work on the tricorder. Depression-era New York was hateful and meager and the minds of the people were small. Their prejudices and misconceptions suffocated Spock. Even those prejudices that did not affect him caged him; he felt them as psychic bands. The city itself was soot and grit ground into ice and derelict buildings. It was old brick and wood and icy mornings where the breath fogged, and trains rattling the cast-iron fire escape out the window all night.

They'd tried to help, in what little ways they could. They had straightened out, in the parlance of the day, a man in their tenement who drank the family's little coin and beat his wife, but the family moved soon after. They knew she had little recourse to leave him, not with five children and women's work paying a pittance, and fallen women again an underclass. They had stopped a beating of an effete young man who was a suspected homosexual. A black man was attacked by a mob of white youths after another, unidentified black man was accused of raping one of 'their' women. The police didn't even come, for that one; Kirk and Spock had to patch him up best they could on their own. They had visited many worlds with similarly hateful norms, similar prejudices, a similar fundamental smallness of scope, but never for this long without so much as a word with anybody from the outside.

But they'd been together. They'd shared a room and an easy intimacy and many nights talking for hours about everything and nothing. They'd been in civilian clothes, somewhat blunting the hierarchical distance between them, although Edith had (correctly) pointed out that 'Captain' was always unspoken on his tongue. They had access to a library and a wood stove and several cozy nights in the dark little room, by weak electric light, while Kirk read and Spock worked on the tricorder, and Kirk would frequently comment on some aspect of his book he thought needed comment and read Spock entire passages he particularly loved. He'd bemusedly listen to romantic poetry of the 1800's and the lost generation of the 1910's—Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky—and entire passages of Dostoevsky and Shakespeare. And nights when Kirk was out with Edith, he'd work alone, content that Kirk was happy.

Ridiculously happy, as he'd put it. Here he was not a starship captain responsible for hundreds of lives and bound by the obligations of a superior officer to somebody with less power. He was, as far as Edith was concerned, a nobody—a broke, unemployed drifter with no title or education or status to convey upon him some respectability. Away from the ship and the constant reminder of his responsibilities he relaxed, his headaches eased off, and he started feeling human again. Well, that was what he told Spock, one evening, a good portion of the way into a bottle of moonshine (which Spock had inspected, best he could without equipment, and deemed at least as far as he could tell fit for human consumption).

"I'm a… blank slate here, Spock. Don't you get it?" The pauses in his speech were even worse when he was drunk. He was sitting on his bed in the small garret and gesturing for emphasis, still wearing his outer coat and scarf against the cold in the room. "I can re-create myself. No obligations, no… expectations. Nobody wants anything from me because I can't give them anything. I'm nobody. I don't have to worry that Edith is trying to use me for something." He leaned on his arm and smiled. "She said she loves me, Spock. Did I mention that?"

Spock just watched him over the circuit array he was fiddling with. He had never seen Kirk this drunk. He would never allow himself to become this inhibited were there ever a chance he would be called to command. Spock was shocked Kirk allowed himself this much latitude while they were, essentially, on an extended away mission, and McCoy could show up at any moment.

"You have mentioned it," said Spock. Three times since he had come back into their room.

"She loves me even with all that—extra stuff stripped away. Status. Rank. All the gold braid. Everything—just me, just Jim Kirk, that's it, that's enough for her. She doesn't even know I—come from her dream world, from the future, and she still loves me for who I am. Isn't that amazing, Spock?"

"It must be a gratifying change, to be able to engage emotionally with somebody without worrying about ulterior motives, or about possible conflicts of interest."

"I know what you're about to say." Kirk was wagging his finger. "We can't stay here and she can't go with us. I know—I'm—I'm okay with that. Just knowing that she lived, and went on to change the world, and she loved me—that somebody loved me—for who I am." He thought for a moment. "Spock! Let's stay here."

Spock looked up sharply. Now he was certain the captain was very drunk.

"That is not a possibility. You know this."

"Hang the regulations! What are—is Starfleet gonna do, come back in time and court martial us?" He leaned back on his hands and stared at the ceiling for a while. "Spock, imagine it!" He sprung up and crossed the space in two steps, clutched Spock's shoulders. "We could… live here, together, just you and me and Edith, and—and McCoy, wherever he is, whenever we stop him from altering the timeline—and we could all work to make things better, for this planet, for the country, for… for… everybody."

Spock took a deep breath and started to speak, but Kirk shook him.

"I don't want to hear it, Mr. Spock! I know what you're going to say!" He let go of Spock's shoulders. Spock was staring at him. "We can't. We—can't. But—can't you let me dream a little bit? Just for a little while?" He started pacing around the room. Two steps to the other bed, turn, two steps to the wall, turn, four steps to the opposite wall, back. "I have everything I need here with me. I have my first officer, my—best friend." He smiled at Spock. "It's all perfect. You're the only thing from my old life I couldn't do without, Spock. And you're here already."

Spock realized he was blinking and staring a half-second before he also realized the blood was rushing to his face. He closed his eyes and focused on draining the blood back to his core. His cheeks were boiling hot.

"Spock? You doing okay there, buddy? You look a little green."

Kirk giggled. Spock swallowed and folded his hands on his work bench.

"Jim."

He was trying to keep the sorrow out of his face. He closed his eyes to steady himself, and felt Kirk looming over him, opened his eyes as Kirk placed both hands on the arms of his chair and leaned over him. Their noses were one point two millimeters apart.

Spock realized his mouth was dry. And the blush was coming back.

"Spock, you're blushing."

He wet his tongue. "Vulcans do not blush."

"You're ly-ing," Kirk said in a singsong voice. He patted Spock's cheek, and Spock's heart jumped. "It's all right, Mr. Spock. Your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anybody the noble, emotionless, perfect race of Vulcans would stoop so low as to blush. Or lie about it."

Spock pressed his lips together. The blood had, by now, drained back, and his face was its normal color. He was hoping Kirk would just believe he had imagined the blush.

"Vulcans do not lie."

"Oh my goooooood." Kirk drew back dramatically. "You're such a liiii-ar."

Spock's irritation sublimated. He was actually starting to get worried. Kirk staggered back onto the bed and sat down, hard, picked up the bottle again.

"Jim, are you quite sure you're all right?"

Kirk waved his hand dismissively. "Never better, Commander. Never better. Everything is absolutely—perfect!"

Spock stood and snatched the half-finished bottle away from Kirk, who started protesting.

"I believe you have consumed enough ethanol for this evening, Captain."

"I believe—you—can—" He gestured for Spock to wait while he thought of a response. "—can—go…"

"I will not be leaving your side while you are in this state."

Kirk gestured more vehemently. "I'm not finished." Spock paused, and Kirk thought for a moment, hand still raised. He finally lowered it triumphantly and pointed at Spock. "Can go fly a kite."

Kirk started laughing at that. Spock took a deep breath through his nose, held it for a moment, and exhaled.

"You should see to your evening hygiene, Captain. And forthwith sleep immediately."

"Screw it." Kirk waved him off and settled down in the bed. "I'll do it in the morning."

Spock took another deep breath, looking inward for patience. Kirk was still wearing his filthy boots and outdoor clothes in the bed. His breath already smelled horrid. Everything about his state made Spock's skin crawl with distaste. He finally acquiesced and sighed, again, closing his eyes.

"At the very least, Captain, you should consume water and electrolytes. You will be dehydrated and subsequently hung over when you awaken."

Kirk sat up and staggered toward the door. "I do have to use the restroom, though."

"Captain." Spock started to stand. "Are you sure—"

Kirk gestured harshly for Spock to sit back down. "I can handle it."

Which he apparently did, and got back in one piece. Spock was mixing a solution of salt and sugar when Kirk returned and collapsed back into the bed. Spock handed him the glass and Kirk took a drink and sputtered.

"This is disgusting."

"You should drink it, Captain."

"Put it by the bed. I'll finish it in a moment."

Spock did. Kirk fell asleep immediately without touching the glass.

---

Kirk slept in well after sunrise. Spock had gotten a few hours of sleep, after making sure Kirk was not drunk enough to risk respiratory arrest or aspirating on his own vomit (not nearly—maybe Kirk wasn't as drunk as he was acting? An excuse to let out some emotion? Spock was puzzled by this—why manufacture some pretense to say what he felt? He never had before.), and had been back at work on the tricorder when Kirk started stirring. Kirk finally got up and immediately went down the hall, and Spock just poured some water from their ration into their old kettle and set it on the stove. Kirk returned and stood in the doorway, looking around, somewhat dazed.

"We missed work. Why didn't you wake me up?"

"It is Sunday, Captain. We do not have anywhere to be today."

Kirk collapsed back onto the bed and rubbed between his eyes.

"Dammit, Spock, why did you let me drink that much? I don't think I've been that drunk since I was at the Academy." He thought for a moment and opened his eyes, horrified. "Oh, my God. What did I say last night?"

"Nothing much of consequence. We talked about your romantic attachment to Ms. Keeler." Spock paused for a long time, not sure if he should speak. The kettle whistled, and he set himself to preparing tea. Kirk just stared at the opposite wall until Spock brought him over a mug, and he sat up.

"You're a lifesaver, Spock."

Spock sipped from his own mug and sat on the end of the bed. "I'm not so sure of that. I do not feel comfortable dignifying this beverage by calling it 'tea'."

Kirk smiled wryly and clasped Spock's knee. Spock had been expecting something like this. He did not allow the blood to go to his face.

"I must agree with you," said Kirk.

"Jim."

"Yes, Mr. Spock?"

"You do not need to pretend to be that intoxicated before you can feel comfortable disclosing to me your conflicted thoughts. Though I am well aware that I am blunt by human standards I will not judge you for your feelings."

Kirk's face had fallen during that statement. Spock felt a jolt of insecurity and anger as Kirk withdrew his hand from his knee and glowered.

"You don't think I was actually drunk?"

"You were certainly intoxicated to a certain extent, but not to the extent that you would suffer retrograde amnesia of the intoxication period." Kirk pressed his lips together and was about to say something, but Spock held up his hand. "Jim. Please. When I say that a thought of yours is irrational I do not mean any judgment by it. I am merely serving as a source of advice, in the best way that I can provide. You do not need to manufacture a pretense for speaking your mind. I am sorry if I ever made you feel that way."

Kirk stared at him for a while. Finally, he closed his eyes and took another gulp of his tea. Spock worried for a second it would burn him, but given the temperature of the room, and the conductive properties of ceramic and volume of the mug, it should have cooled to a tolerable temperature in the four minutes ten seconds since he had taken the kettle off.

"I'm sorry, Spock. I value your advice more highly than anyone else's."

"I can be no way other than the way that I am. Within the confines of that I seek to provide the services of which I am best capable." Spock looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I know you rather well by now, Captain. You would not inebriate yourself to an extent that would impair your ability to act suddenly during a mission."

Kirk shrugged and turned the mug around as though inspecting it. His face had colored a bit. "I think you ascribe a level of nobility to me rather higher than reality would warrant."

"I do not."

Kirk looked up. Spock stared back at him. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Stretched like a soap bubble, time suspended.

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions

At twelve point two seconds, the tension popped and Kirk looked back down at the mug.

"I am really hung over, though. And you really are a lifesaver."

"You should eat, Captain."

"Right." Kirk looked over at their paltry store. "What do we have up here? I really don't feel like going down to the mission."

"Two chicken eggs. A half loaf of rye bread at 108.7 grams. One cabbage head, last checked at 902 grams, although loss of water—"

Kirk waved his hand. "Never mind. I'll look."

"If the ingredients are not to your liking, there is a Jewish grocer down the street. They do not observe the Christian Sabbath and so should be open today."

"We don't exactly have a lot of money to throw around." Kirk grabbed the grocery bag from the corner, sat on the bed, and looked through it. "I'm more worried about what I would make for you. We don't have much in the way of vegetables."

Spock sorely wanted to point out that Kirk had been the last one to go shopping and had not purchased much in the way of vegetables, but he just held his mug in his lap. "Cabbage alone should suffice for nutrition. It is edible as-is without additional preparation."

"I am not giving you a raw head of cabbage to eat. I know we at least have some salt around here somewhere." He looked a little more. "There's half a potato and two carrots, and a little flour. I can make a stew out of that. I can eat the salami and eggs."

"The doctor did say that you needed to incorporate more vegetables into your diet."

Kirk narrowed his eyes at him and snorted in faux-irritation. Half-faux, anyway. "I don't see the good doctor here, do you, Mr. Spock?"

Spock arched his eyebrow. "The sooner we find the good doctor, the sooner we can return to our proper time."

It was true, and they both knew it, but he still should not have said it. Kirk almost flinched. Almost. Spock was one of two people who would have noticed. Kirk gave an unconvincing half-smile and shook Spock's knee again—hurt, anticipatory grief—and used it as a brace to stand up.

Still, Kirk was happy, for that time. And Spock was happy that he was happy. Truly, he was. Any tinge of jealousy would have been irrational. Kirk had a heart big enough to love many people. They were close friends. Kirk had said he could not live without him. Spock did not want anything more than that.

Truly, he did not.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

"You? At his side, as if you've always been there and always will."

There is no nebulous sense of 'justice' in the universe. Spock was well aware of this, but he found himself thinking that it was a perverse injustice, something grotesque and against any semblance of order, that this woman had to die to ensure progress. She was progress, manifested. She was a singular soul of near-prophetic perception, the best of all traits, the near-limits of human compassion and understanding in a single entity. In this singular instance a war was necessary to ensure peace. There was no analogy to be drawn from that, no justification for future wars, no universal constant or rule. It was the most mechanical and disjointed casual chain, void of inherent symbolism.

It is illogical to expect things to fit into a logical and neat order. It is illogical to expect things to always make sense. Irony, like humor, is innately known. These are the thoughts Spock used to steady himself when he realized the source of the anomaly. Edith Keeler must die. There is no judgment in this, no justice, no analogy, no grand message. A tooth must be broken out of a gear. A switch must be thrown. The train must divert. All analogies to explain how there's no analogy; humanoids are an exhausting mess. Spock had just gotten very good at pretending he was an exception. He gave up pretending to himself a while ago. Pretending to others was easy.

And then he had to be the one to tell Kirk. And the one to stand firm.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair

It was a hateful thing, to be the one to break somebody's heart. He'd take all that anger and hatred of the situation into himself if it would bring Kirk relief. And Kirk never blamed him.

Not even when he held Bones back.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?

He almost didn't tell him. It was a betrayal, a flicker in his mind—no more than a split second, like a butterfly's wing—but in the end he'd do what was Right. The needs of the many. He almost weighed the happiness of one man against billions of lives and found them in balance. Almost.

The needs of the many—

Something in that weighed on him, and he closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips against his own psi points. Something that was/would be/always was/would someday be. He'd felt temporally abstracted, since he'd come through the gate—ghosts of his child self/current self/future self superimposed over a finite moment, though the 'future' selves were shadowed. At the end of the line/he was, a ghost haunting the ruins of a life that could have been, a proud, straight-backed, fragile old man who clutched something that hung around his neck and stared at it in his hand.

And indeed there will be time

"I thought I told you to get off my planet," said the Guardian.

Spock started, his vision focused on concrete immediacy, rock columns and night sky, and was about to turn and tell the Guardian that he had not chosen to be dumped here, when something began to glow in front of him and he turned back around.

It was Kaniel, a pre-reform Vulcan trickster god and guardian of outsiders. He hesitated a moment in shock—something only Kirk, or McCoy, or another Vulcan would pick up on—before straightening and clasping his hands behind his back.

"He's not—"

The Guardian's voice was cut off when Kaniel closed his fist in front of him, as though catching a bug. The Guardian hummed with furious energy behind him, but it was no longer transmitting coherent thought. Spock arched his eyebrow.

"Fascinating."

"S'chn T'gai Spock!" Kaniel stretched his arms out and a phantom wind rustled his robes, dust Vulcan red. "I am Kaniel, ancient god of—"

"You are taking a form my mind can comprehend, or are disguised. I do not for a moment believe you are the actual Kaniel."

The wind stopped, and Kaniel's triumphant expression faded. He huffed and crossed his arms. "Well, you're absolutely no fun at all, are you?" The echo was gone from his voice.

Spock shrugged, hands still clasped behind him. "So I have been told. Will you be explaining where and when I am and what is going on?"

"Uh. Momentarily, momentarily." 'Kaniel' composed himself and lifted his arms again, summoning the wind. The echo came back. "As a child you prayed to me in your darkest hour. Though the Vulcans have forgotten me you did not, for you were also outsider, and—"

"Will you be getting to the point anytime soon?"

"—though I could not answer your prayers then—" Kaniel's voice boomed louder, a shade irritated, and the wind whipped dirt into Spock's eyes. He shielded them with his hand. "—I now come to you in your time of need. Kaniel remembers those who remember him."

The dirt smelled of Vulcan, was definitely of Vulcan. He knew that to his marrow. "I do not remember Kaniel ever speaking of himself in the third person in the old epics."

"Oh for—" Kaniel's aura flared red, and for a moment—a hauntingly familiar moment—he scowled. He took a deep breath and composed himself back into aloof, burning-bush-godhood. "You asked me to help you learn how not to feel. That really wasn't the problem you had later in life, when it mattered, was it? But ultimately, to gods who don't get off on pedantry to the point of twisting words, a prayer is a call for help. You spent eighty-eight years regretting that you never told him how you felt. Now you get a second chance."

The old man at the end of his life glanced his direction, just slightly. A barely perceptible turn of the head.

Spock almost said he had no idea what Kaniel was talking about. It would have been a lie, and they both would know it. The idea was there—he refused to think about it too much. He pushed it to the back of his mind, set a field around it, so his thoughts slid around. Trying not to think about something does not work; Vulcan children learn this as one of the very first tenants of medication. Holding its most vague shape at the back of your mind, and saying you will think about it later, it's there but just a shape, just a shape, no form—

"Whether you mean Vulcan years or Terran years, that is impossible. I am thirty-five Vulcan years of age, thirty-nine Terran."

Vulcan children also learn, very young, that a distasteful idea must be fearlessly examined to defuse it. Then you can see it has no power to hurt you. It's just a thought.

Spock ignored that part of his lessons, for now.

"I mean Vulcan years, you jumped-up uptight pointy-eared bastard." Kaniel rubbed between his eyes. "You are the most exasperating— I am a Vulcan deity, am I not? Speaking to a Vulcan? Speaking in Vulcan? So I would be using Vulcan years. You unfeeling, pedantic—" He placed one hand on his hip and shook his finger at Spock. "Since you have such a love of pedantry maybe I should have taken away your ability to feel. At least then you wouldn't have had to bother with that overwrought and ironically maudlin kolinahr nonsense or whatever it is you Vulcans do to 'find yourselves'. I swear every humanoid species goes through a mid-life crisis."

"I find it curious a Vulcan deity would find Vulcan anatomy a point for insult, or that a Vulcan deity would speak of a Vulcan ceremony with the incredulity and disrespect of an outsider. Also, I have never trained in the kolinahr discipline."

As he said that, he knew somewhere in the timeline, as it folded in on itself in his awareness, he was lying. That shape again. Slide around it. The old man was listening very carefully, holding his breath.

"Yes. Well." Kaniel withdrew his hand in reproach. "I am an outsider, am I not? A trickster deity? Isn't it my place to question the mores of the society to allow for self-awareness? A sort of jester in that sense, privileged?"

Spock arched his eyebrow. "Are you?"

"You are missing the point! I come here as recompense for past misdeeds to do you a boon and you focus on the most insufferably insignificant details. I am an emissary of love! A friend of Eros, of Cupid! I am here to give you a second chance."

"I think you are looking for a much older, and worldly, Vulcan that myself." Spock paused for a moment. "We are the ones with the pointy ears. We tend to stick out."

"Oh, your attempts at humor are painful! Look, just—" Kaniel tucked one hand under the other elbow and gestured with his free hand. "—come here and do that mind meld thing. It will be faster just to show you.

"I am hesitant to meld with a being of considerable power and unknown motive. The damage to my psyche could be extensive."

Kaniel withdrew his hand to his chest, theatrically wounded. "I would never."

Spock just stared at him. Finally, Kaniel sighed and blipped out of the bubble, several yards away, and suddenly was right in Spock's face. He grabbed his chin before Spock could dodge and grabbed his fist with the other hand as he swung. They stared at each other for a moment. Kaniel sighed and shook his head.

"I really did not want it to come to this."

Spock opened his mouth to speak, but electricity oozed out of Kaniel's fingertips on his chin, on his wrist, and zapped up his spine. His legs buckled and he collapsed, Kaniel following him down to his knees, still clutching him. Spock's breath came ragged, and he felt a stirring of something he kept deep in his consciousness, down down below, tramped down below the brainpan, sublimated every time it stirred. And he knew it was going to be dragged out.

Spock choked in terror. The power stripped away all levels of Vulcan control, and the frayed wires left behind in his brain shorted out.

"Don't."

Kaniel smiled, and Spock fell, vision blacking out, blood pressure dropping, into stars, beyond stars, out of time. And then he lived a lifetime.

---

All that ever was, is. All that ever will be, was.

And indeed there will be time

There wasn't time.

There was all the time in the world and there wasn't time, wasn't time, it was never the right time. And then he was gone.

---

I-Chaya murfled sleepily and turned toward the small, crying ball of misery that crashed into his flank. Spock buried his face in his side and shook, clutching his fur, muffling sobs. The old sehlat's side heaved as he sighed and craned his neck to sniff at the miserable little creature clutching to him. His good tusk bonked Spock's upper arm as he nudged him in question. The child just shook his head furiously and buried his face deeper. Sehlat skin was loose and I-Chaya's bones were close to the surface, and he rested his forehead against his ribs, a discrete point he could roll his forehead across. It felt good, in a weird way, a stimulation to distract him from how overwhelmed he felt. Vulcans were supposed to be so good at hiding their discomfort they could sit perfectly still and not get upset, but Spock had learned that if he fidgeted with something—the hem of his robe, a pen, even just rubbing his thumb along the side of his finger—he could calm himself down a little.

After a while Spock looked up and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, across his lip where the split had re-opened, and there was a pale streak of green across his hand. In his black robes and in the harsh artificial light his pale, skinny forearm was almost blinding. I-Chaya's fur was auburn with red and gold and the colors stayed in his mind, slashed across with green, a long time after he closed his eyes and buried his face in his flank again. He hadn't been able to look at himself in the mirror in a while but when he checked after dinner a green-yellow bruise was forming around his eye.

He had packed a satchel – a blanket, a water flask, a few loaves of kreyla, an old flint knife he'd bought on a whim a few days ago and a stone to send up sparks, a few changes of underclothes, soap, his child-sized lyre. He wore his good traveling robes and boots. His practice lirpa was strapped to the back of his pack. He would never have been able to sneak out undetected if Father had been home, but he had returned to the embassy after dinner, and Mother, with her weak human ears, was asleep.

He'd finally completely lost his temper at school. He'd tackled a group of boys who were making fun of his mother, a sobbing ball of rage, and the teachers had called his father in from work to collect him. His father had not even looked angry, this time. He just looked—tired. And disappointed.

It didn't matter how horrible the things were they said about his mother. They'd insulted her chastity and speculated crudely about the shape of her genitals. The things they said were not true—and they all knew it—and Spock's reaction was irrational. So he didn't even bother trying to explain to his father why he had reacted that way, which came as a relief, as he wouldn't be able to bring himself to repeat the words without feeling mortified.

Spock got the overwhelming feeling that his father was thinking having him was a mistake.

It's just a thought and it can't hurt you, even if it's true.

A good Vulcan would be able to think about it, and face it, and turn the thought around in his hands and examine it until it didn't have any power anymore. Spock wasn't a good Vulcan. It hurt too much, so he put it aside, behind a field, and held it there, like he'd been taught. There, with all the other bad thoughts he tried not think about. That tactic was only supposed to be used in emergencies, when one didn't have the quiet and time to meditate properly. Spock used it all the time. Spock was a bad Vulcan and a failure and he would never fit in.

It was night in the high Vulcan desert and though the winds were still hot, the suns were at least not scorching the sand. The house was still blindingly lit and Spock was still in its light, so the desert immediately beyond was dark. The Milky Way was an oil-slick rent in the sky, a band cutting from the far, flat horizon and up, disappearing at its zenith in the light from the house. He heaved himself up I-Chaya's massive flank, yanking on his fur to steady himself, scrabbling, and I-Chaya only grumbled a little bit. Once he mounted Spock patted his neck in thanks for not biting him and clicked his tongue.

"Let's go, I-Chaya."

I-Chaya straightened out, muscles moving beneath Spock's legs, shook himself a little, and lumbered out of the circle of hard light. And then, he was under the stars. Spock looked back—the light seemed captured around his house, like something inside a globe, or a force-field—and watched his house get smaller, until it was just a half-orb like a rising sun in the dark.

He was so tiny he couldn't ride I-Chaya properly, with his legs to either side of his back, so he sat awkwardly on his high shoulders like a chair and gripped the fur to either side. I-Chaya lumbered along, swaying as the sand shifted under his paws, and Spock's arms were getting tired from holding on. He tugged I-Chaya to slow down, and he did, but the swaying became worse as he had more time to sink into the sand with each step. He nudged I-Chaya to go faster and while it was scarier to go flying by so fast when he was unstable, the swaying was not as bad. Spock got an idea and he scooted forward to I-Chaya's neck, where his body narrowed enough for Spock to straddle properly, and collapsed against the back of his head. I-Chaya huffed in mild irritation but kept going.

He was going to be a great Vulcan warrior and make his home out in the desert. He would get so good at fighting nobody would laugh at him again. He'd be so smart and wise people would come from all over to hear his advice. He'd stun the elders with his knowledge, like Jesus in the Terran epic, and they'd hate him because he'd be so smart but unlike Jesus they'd be too afraid of him to do anything. Terrans would hear about him, this amazing half-Terran Vulcan, and travel to his planet just catch a glimpse of him being hermity and awesome, but he'd be too cool and above it all to care. It would be just him and I-Chaya having awesome adventures all over the world, saving lives and righting wrongs and leaving legends and songs about him in his wake.

Sehlat navigated by the stars. Even when the suns were out, they could sense them, somehow. I-Chaya seemed to know where he wanted to go, so Spock stared off to the side, along the desert sands, where they drifted up in the distance to the starry sky. The stored heat of the day radiated off the sand and he closed his eyes, warm and feeling decided and stable for the first time that day. He did not know where he was going, but he was going; he had made a decision and acted upon it, and was still puffed up with his own agency. This must be how adults feel: in charge of their own lives, controlling where they go and what they do. Now that he had made the decision, now that he had taken the first step on the road to being strong and independent, he would never feel weak and helpless again. There, in the metronome-lurch carrying him along, up down, up down, he found his center, there, at the trough of each bound, and felt always his self drawn back toward it like a magnet. He felt like a gyroscope that could not fall, a being with an absolute center. And he was sure he would never be frightened, or angry, or emotional, ever again.

And then, he heard a le-matya scream, and his heart froze. And I-Chaya froze, swaying with arrested momentum on the sand, trembling. One suspended second. Two. Spock felt his own heart again, rushing, now, like a ch'kariya's heart, fluttering fit to burst, and his head was light. Three. I-Chaya shifted his weight, unsure, and grumbled, still waiting. Four. Five.

Six.

I-Chaya shook, a shiver that ran through his loose fur and up Spock's legs, and started running again, but lighter on his paws. Spock waited, and waited, and waited. There was no further cry. Four beats of his heart to one lurch, three, now. He hid his face in I-Chaya's fur and did the breathing exercises. Two point five six eight. Two point three nine zero. He looked up. The air was sharp, the stars crystalline with adrenaline-heightened vision. He saw the world clearly, he felt its immediacy, and its vastness. The center was lost. Each lurch he felt pulled here-and-there, snapped back and forth like a rag doll on a string, barely held upright under his own power.

He was but seven years of age. He did not have the physical strength to fight off predators or manipulate the environment for shelter. He did not have seeds to grow his own food. He could use his practice lirpa as a club but the blade was dull. The flint knife was the only proper bladed weapon he had, and it was small, and at the bottom of his pack. He did not know where to find water. He did not have any medical supplies.

If he had just been more logical, he never would have done this. If he didn't have feelings, he wouldn't have gotten upset and wanted to do this. If he didn't have feelings, he wouldn't care that Mother and Father would be upset when they found out he was gone.

He didn't think about it. He tried to shove it back into that big opaque force-field in the back of his mind.

"They are just thoughts, Spock," his teacher had said. "You can face them and they will not hurt you. I promise. You are stronger than you think."

Spock wasn't strong. He was weak, and pathetic, and everybody wanted him to be something he could not be. He started sniffling again and buried his face in I-Chaya's neck. There were mental exercises you could do to keep yourself from crying. Only little babies cried. He finally controlled himself and looked up at the sky.

Earth was only sixteen light-years away. The sky would look almost the same there.

Mother said on Earth everybody was emotional, like her, and that emotions were okay. She said on Earth Spock would actually be the logical one! Imagine! On Earth it was okay to be different and cry and feel things and do things that didn't make sense sometimes. On Earth, he'd have friends. They wouldn't call him 'Human', because they were human. Would they call him 'Vulcan'? Would he just be normal?

He thought of his knife and contemplated, not for the first time, rounding off the tips of his ears so he'd look like his mother. Maybe if he looked human he could pretend to be an orphan and start over on Earth. But he couldn't get there, anyway. He could not get passage on a starship without his parents. They'd just send him home from the port at the base of the elevator. Besides, it was illogical, again; he had no money and he didn't know anybody on Earth. And he'd make his parents sad. He wanted to run away because he was emotional and because he was emotional he couldn't run away. He was trapped, trapped, trapped.

Do not think about it.

In school the teacher had read them a bunch of old myths from the pre-Reform time, back when Vulcans were not logical and they believed in those things. She said they were preserved because they had 'cultural value' but Spock just thought they were cool. He liked magic and wizards and hermits and stories where good guys always won. They were already reading history, and in history the good guys didn't always win, but Spock still believed deep down that good guys had to win in the end. It was too sad otherwise. His favorite story was about a Vulcan scientist, back in the days when Vulcans were all warriors and scientists were considered weak and stupid, who beat a pack of bigger, stronger men who were trying to kill him, and he used logic and strategy to outwit all of them. And then Kaniel came down to him, and told him that he was the protector of outsiders, and a trickster, and soon the outsiders would be the majority, and wouldn't that be the ultimate trick? The wheel of fortune moves and outsiders exist to remind people of their own absurdities, lest they get too comfortable in their ways.

Spock was an outsider now, sort of. He cried when he got hurt and when others got hurt. He cried when people made fun of him. He got better at hiding it but his lip would still tremble, his throat would still get sore, and his eyes would well up.

"Lord Kaniel, if you're there… I don't want to have feelings anymore. I want to be strong and logical and never cry again and I don't want things to hurt me anymore. Please make me a good Vulcan."

The stars stared back at him. He sighed and collapsed against I-Chaya's neck and closed his eyes.

He was jerked awake and almost thrown from I-Chaya when the sehlat stopped, losing footing in the pooling sand and backing up. Spock gripped his fur and buried his face in the beast's neck, heart pounding, and finally calmed his breathing enough to feel emerging from the background of his heart pounding that I-Chaya was growling.

Spock finally opened his eyes. They had stopped in an upshooting of rocks from the sand, a broken circle of jagged teeth, and surrounded by three figures riding sehlat and bearing torches. Spock gasped and gripped I-Chaya's fur hard enough he would usually have snipped at him, but the old sehlat was too busy looking from one figure to the other and backing up, drawing his neck in defensively and crouching. One of the riders circled around to their rear, blocking their escape, and I-Chaya snarled and dropped down lower, pacing in circles.

"It is a child."

Spock started and looked at the man who was standing far closer to him than he thought. The man brought the electric torch around to look more closely at Spock, and the sudden light made him flinch and bury his face again. The man had been shirtless, with long, ragged hair, just like one of the pictures in his history book; in Spock's mind the light still glowed off his chest, off the gold chain.

I-Chaya lurched toward the man and snapped; the man jumped back and laughed. Spock looked up, surprised. Why was this man not mad?

"This old sehlat is a fighter."

I-Chaya was still growling and jerking his head around, trying to keep all three riders in his vision. The other riders had drawn closer and Spock could now see that their sehlat were fully-muscled, sturdy of limb and with thick golden hair glowing in the firelight, with full-strong teeth. I-Chaya's fur was greying and patchy and dull, and his skin hung off his bones, and both his fangs (intact and broken) were veined yellow and cracking. Spock noticed for the first time how much I-Chaya shook. The other sehlat stood firm and unmoving in the sand.

"Wait a moment."

That was a woman's voice. The speaker dismounted her sehlat and walked into the circle of light, eyes narrowed in contemplation. She was at least as tall as Father, with muscles like corded rope beneath badly sun-damaged, browned skin, and a deeply-lined, regal face. Her wiry, grey hair was held back in a fluff with an embroidered headband. Like the men, she wore riding leathers and had an old phaser on her belt, and a lirpa across her back. She was scarred, in the way of warriors, and had white-lightning stretch lines around her navel, in the way of females who have borne children. She rubbed her lips with one deeply-scarred hand, still looking Spock over, and Spock hid his face in I-Chaya's neck, again. Even Vulcans who had seen combat he had known were not so scarred; dermal regeneration prevented that. Was she injured in a place with no medicine, and those cuts had to heal that way? Were they sewn up with gut like in the ancient books? Did she choose to let them scar? Even stretchmarks, from pregnancy, could be lessened or eliminated, but here she looked like those ancient photos, and she wore these marks without shame. He thought of Mother, always moisturizing, always covering herself wrist-to-ankle to hide her human skin from the harsh sun.

"You are Sybok's brother."

Spock looked up in shock. Father had forbidden Sybok's name spoken since he had run away last year. The woman held up the ta'al and Spock mirrored automatically, and she smiled.

"I am called Oratt, son-of-Sarek. These two are my sons, Selek and Sofek. How are you called?"

"I am called Spock, Grandmother."

"He is the half-human." The man who had originally addressed him had circled around next to Oratt, and the other man was dismounting his sehlat to walk over. "Why have you strayed so far into the Forge, Spock, son of Sarek?"

Spock shrugged and looked down at his hands for a moment, then swallowed and forced himself to look the man in the eye, as a child did when speaking to an adult. The man did not look unkindly.

"I became lost, sir." It was not completely a lie, at least. He really did have no idea where he was.

"You are a very long way from home," said Oratt.

Spock almost looked down again but forced himself to keep looking straight.

"I fell asleep. I-Chaya must have wandered off."

Oratt looked sideways at I-Chaya, who was still growling quietly, and rubbed her lips again, thinking. "It is a great distance, to have wandered out this far." She thought for a moment. "I-Chaya, I am happy that you remembered how to find us."

Spock twisted to look at I-Chaya's face. He was still growling, a little, but now seemed unsure, and was half-posed between relaxing and crouching.

"How do you know I-Chaya?"

"Sybok rode him. He must have remembered the way to our oasis. But he is old, and his memory slips; he seems not to remember me. Sehlat seek water; the instinct to remember water sources runs deeper than sentiment."

Spock did not know where to begin. Oratt crossed her arms and considered him for a moment.

"Did that awful father of yours drive you away, Spock?"

Spock colored and sat up straighter. "My father is a good man."

"Save it." Oratt waved her hand as the other two men exchanged looks; one of them was trying not to laugh. "I know well of Sarek and the way he treats his own blood who deviate from the ways of Surak. Sybok had many things to say on the matter."

Sybok and father had fought constantly, and bitterly, much to the agony of mother. At the time Spock was too young to appreciate much of what was being said, but he had many times looked back on those memories, and wondered about Sybok's words. Sybok was a regressive, a rebel who wanted to return to the way things were before Surak had reformed Vulcan. He swore and talked about things like love being more important that logic, and skipped school, and talked back to the learning pods, and fought having his hair cut cleanly, but he was also the brother who brought Spock sweets from the Terran outpost and hugged him when he cried and told him his feelings were okay.

Sybok and Mother were the only people Spock knew who accepted him the way he was. The last few months Sybok was at home he went out a lot at night, and came home in the morning to fight with Mother and Father, puffed up with adolescent-cusp bravado, and Mother would cry while Father said cold things and Sybok stormed upstairs to slam his bedroom door.

"You are a bad influence on Spock," he had once heard his father say to Sybok, while he was hiding around the corner. "You encourage his worst human tendencies. You indulge his emotions. I am trying to raise him in the ways of Surak. I am already working against his deficiencies."

"The ways of Surak create mutilated half-creatures of full men," Sybok yelled—Spock had gotten used to this by now, but no other Vulcan he knew ever yelled unless it was necessary. He had also gotten used to Sybok's use of what he called metaphor—saying things that were factually false but that meant something else. "We are not robots, Father. Spock is not a robot. Neither his human nor his Vulcan side are. The passions of Vulcans run deep as humans'."

"You speak nonsense and the propaganda of the regressed and the savage. Where do you acquire this faulty philosophy? From that group of desert rabble you visit?"

"They are more alive than you!"

"Alive is a binary condition. You are or are not."

"I cannot believe Lady Amanda tolerates you."

Sarek clenched his teeth—just slightly, just for a second. "You will not bring my wife into this argument. She is irrelevant to the issue at hand."

"Is she? Was marrying a human for love strictly rational?"

Sarek pressed his lips together. "We have discussed this. Mutual affection is beneficial. It is beneficial and logical to acknowledge some of our most basic needs, irrational as they may be. Evolution has left these marks on us. But you seek to exalt them, and indulge every whim that strikes you."

"Come, young Spock," said Oratt. "I will take you to our oasis."

Selek and Sofek fell in on other side of I-Chaya as Oratt lead them over the hills to a distant circle of great rocks, sticking out of the sand like a broken crown, black shadows against the starry sky. They left Spock's and Oratt's sehlat at a pen at the base of one of the rocks, a stockade of rock festooned with colored banners and copper medals that glinted in the near-distant light, and Spock finally convinced I-Chaya that he would be all right by himself. The old sehlat sighed gratefully and lumbered to the water trough under a broad canopy, where he nipped at some younger sehlat until they moved out of his way, and fell to drinking. The warriors chatted with the stockade guards for a moment, and they looked over Spock curiously, who just stared at his feet, and Selek and Sofek split off to return to guard duty as Oratt lead Spock toward the encampment.

In the artificial light of the encampment the great rocks were rust-red. They bordered a flat outcropping rising out of the ocean of sand, of the same stone; the sand changed to baked-earth pathways in naked rock, here, and the pathways were lined by great modular dome tents with sturdy rock lintels, hung with colored flags and painted in geometric designs. The rocks were hung with strings of lamps, and the insides of most of the tents glowed. People were out, even at this late hour. Most of the men, and a good fifth of the women went with bare chests, and they were all sun-browned, adults and children alike, with long hair bound in various styles, braids tight to the scalp, or locks bound with copper rings, or just loose. It was almost like out of one of his history textbooks. Almost. It was a step sideways of what he had always imagined, too small, too immediate, too tangible, and with too many electric lights and other evidences of technology. As Spock and Oratt emerged into the light of the pathway others looked up at them, and many of them paused, or stared, upon seeing Spock. Spock looked at the ground and shuffled behind Grandmother Oratt, who nudged him in front of her.

"Nobody here will hurt you. We are a great family, here."

Spock looked around a little—a flash of colored flag, of a pennant hanging on a pole before a tent, of a girl staring at him—and looked back down, at his dusty boots on the red path. Oratt clucked and steered him into a tent. The living room was darker, with muted, yellow light, and a large table set low to the ground surrounded by sitting cushions in vermillion and yellow silk. At the back of the room, an old woman pushed aside a half-curtain across a doorway with the back of her hand and, upon seeing Spock, froze.

"Oratt, adun, who is this child?"

"This is Spock, son of Sarek," said Oratt. She lowered the outer tent flap and began to unbuckle her lirpa holster. The woman blinked, gave Oratt a momentary look, and some unspoken communication must have passed over Spock's head quickly, for the woman immediately came up to him and dropped to her knees, looking him over, feeling his arms as though he might be broken.

"Oh, you poor dear, how did you get so far from home?"

There was a thunk as Oratt dropped her lirpa, still in its belt, and her waist belt with phaser and pouches beside. "I'Chaya brought him out here. Ych'a, he is not used to being touched."

"Oh!" Ych'a clasped her hands to her chest. "Please excuse me, young Spock. I have grown too accustomed to our ways here."

"It is all right, Grandmother." It truly was. Ych'a was kind, in a way that reminded him of Mother, and he had grown used to the way Mother treated him, in private, when Father was not around. Ych'a was of an age with Oratt, with long, yellow hair streaked with grey, and long skirts and wrap of brightly colored and patterned fabrics. She was pale, and the sun had taken its toll on her skin—she was heavily freckled, and wrinkled, with discolored blotches on her face. She was beautiful.

"Ah!" There was another thunk behind Spock, and he looked behind to see Oratt had shed her other riding leathers, including her halter, and was now bare save for a loose under-skirt. She stretched, and her lean muscle moved under her old skin, like crepe on the insides of her upper arm, and her breasts hung almost to her navel, with dark areola the size of saucers and laced with stretch marks, like her stomach. Spock realized he was staring and turned back around to Ych'a, and his face felt hot. Ych'a looked up at Oratt and arched her eyebrows.

"And you think I'm flustering the poor dear by touching him; he's not used to seeing people walking about bare, let alone old women with breasts like pendulums."

Oratt cackled and swatted at Ych'a. "He's got to learn sometime. Young Spock, this is the body of a woman who has borne children and seen decades in the desert sun. From such you came, and such is the toll time takes on those who give life."

Spock did not know what to say, other than "Yes, Grandmother." Ych'a shook her head, smiling, and embraced Oratt, and they interlaced fingers. Ych'a ran her fingertips up the back of Oratt's hand and Spock looked away, now truly blushing. He had never seen more than a chaste touching of the fingertips, forefinger and middle. How could a mind cope with so much psi-receptor input?

"Spock, dear, you must be thirsty," said Ych'a. Before he could respond she was fussing over him again, looking over his robes. "Well, I can throw these in with the wash, at least. Adun, fetch a robe he can borrow. I will draw a bath."

"Aaaah, that sounds lovely," said Oratt. "You fixed the solar, yes?"

"The water gets hotter than the sands at noon."

Ych'a gave Spock an iced tea, which he quaffed almost without tasting while Ych'a drew hot water into the big wooden tub in one of the tent modules out back. Such an astronomical amount of water, and used just for bathing—he had heard humans did this, on Earth, where water was abundant, but had never himself encountered it. He was horrified at the excess but curious. Before he could get in they had him scrub all over with soap until he was green, and wash himself off with a pail over a grate. When he pointed out how wasteful this was out in the desert Oratt said the grate lead to the water reclamation system, and that they weren't mindless savages out here, regardless of what his father may have told him. There was a great bench around the inside of the tub, so he could sit with his head comfortably above water. He got to soak alone while the women washed, staring at the steam-reclamation system piping along the ribs of the tent ceiling, and he was half-asleep by the time they joined him in the tub. He was, again, shocked, when they climbed in with him, as it was unseemly, but it was logical, was it not, to share such a big tub of water, and while it was hot? So he dozed and some time later was nudged out, given linens with which to dry that were thrown into a press to reclaim the water, and soon was sitting at the table in the living room in a clean robe eating a kreyla pudding with dried fruits and honey. It was luxurious, and deliciously topsy-turvey, to eat sweets so close to bedtime, but his contentment evaporated when Ych'a set a large teapot in the center of the table and three cups. A teapot that size was meant to last some time, and that meant they wanted to Talk to him. Oratt sat down with her own square of pudding and another for Ych'a, who kissed her—with her mouth, in the human way—on the cheekbone before she sat down next to her.

"You know," said Ych'a, "once, Sybok brought us a pot of Terran honey from the outpost. It was lovely, much lighter than ours. Except their honey is made by insects called bees, and not g'cha, and look nothing like them. They are much more mild-mannered. I have always imagined that is how the air in an Earth garden might smell, all those delicate flowers."

Spock, who was still flustered from the kiss and staring down at his plate, nodded. It was a nothing-comment, anyway, the sort of meaningless thing adults said to stall before speaking of things more unpleasant, or when they did not know what to say. He followed the cracks in the glaze on the plate, the minute chips and imperfections. This was all too much—too much shock, too much discomfort, too much shame, too much sorrow—for one day.

"So, young Spock," said Oratt. Spock looked up. She was rubbing her lips the way she did when she was thinking. "What has driven you away from your home? Did you quarrel with your father?"

Spock shook his head. There was silence for a bit. Ych'a touched Oratt's arm.

"It would have to be a mighty quarrel indeed to send a small child running into the desert."

"I think you forget the passions of childhood, adun," said Oratt. To Spock, she said. "It is a painful thing, to grow up. It is painful long and well into adulthood, past the age of reason. But the pain can be lessened by sharing the burden. It is a path we have walked before, and many more besides. Your journey will be your own, but would you not consult a guide, who has seen the shape of the path before you?"

Spock pressed his lips together and stared at the table. Ych'a poured tea for herself and Oratt. When she offered wordlessly to Spock, he shook his head.

"Tomorrow morning, we will ride for your home, to return you safe to your parents."

"No!" he yelled, and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth. Oratt merely arched her eyebrows at the outburst, and exchanged a look with Ych'a. Spock's face was boiling.

"Spock," said Ych'a. "Your parents must be worried near to insanity."

"They do not love me!" The shame burned as he yelled, but he did not stop. "I am not a good son. I am emotional, and irrational, and a shame upon all Vulcans. The world would be better if I were dead!"

At such a grave proclamation, he expected them to be shocked, horrified, and brought to realize just how much pain he was feeling. Instead, Oratt seemed to be trying not to laugh, and Ych'a was just shaking her head.

The anger boiled hotter. They were making fun of him. They thought he was stupid, and childish. He was struck with the idea that if he died, if he killed himself, then they would see, then they would feel bad and realize how bad he felt. Mother, Father, Sybok, his teachers, the other children at school—they would all feel so bad for how they treated him.

"Oh Spock, Spock." Ych'a smiled—smiled! Spock had to stamp down the anger in his gut. "Your parents do not hate you. They love you, very, very much."

"They do not! I was a mistake! A half-human half-Vulcan should not exist!"

"Peace, young Spock," said Oratt. There was still something of the repressed laugh, in the cure of her mouth, but there was something else there Spock could not understand. It was almost like sadness, or distance. "Collect your thoughts, and find the center of them. Breathe."

Spock froze in shock. Oratt sounded just like his parents, just like his teachers. Was she not supposed to be wild, totally in thrall to her emotions? The adults here were supposed to let him do whatever he wanted. Another anger rose in him. He felt tricked, somehow. Betrayed. Foolish. His lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt as though a live ember was stuck high in his throat. Ych'a and Oratt exchanged another look, and Ych'a scooted around the table to touch his shoulder.

"Spock, darling. It is all right."

Breathe. That is what you do, when the emotions get to be too much. He focused on loosening the muscles in his throat, in calming his breathing. It was coming in deep, rapid, heaving breaths. His lower lip was trembling so hard he could not bite it still, and his chin vibrated with the effort.

"Spock?"

The Regressive adults were just like the adults back home. There was nowhere, nowhere in the world, in the whole galaxy, in the whole universe, he would be understood. He was always going to be an outcast. He was so strange not even the regressives thought he was acceptable, even here, where it seemed anything was allowed and people did as they pleased.

Spock burst out crying. Oratt sighed and scooted around the table, and gathered him up into her lap.

"Oh Spock, Spock." She rocked him back and forth. "It will be all right, child. Cry; it is good for you. It is the right of any sentient being to cry, and they tried to take that away from you."

"Only ba-a-a-a-bies cr-y-y-y-y-y."

"Oh, no, I can assure you that is not true." She looked over his head at Ych'a, who was smiling, a little sad, but knowing. "Let it out, child. Crying purges the soul and clears the mind. There is no shame in it."

So cry Spock did, in long, heaving sobs, hiccups and snot starting to run down his nose. Ych'a brought him a tissue, which he used to hide his nose and mouth in some shame. A crying mouth was ugly, the lips loose, saliva able to drip, lips pulled back from the teeth like an animal. He hated how he had to keep sniffing hard as his nose was running, and hated even more the ugly noise when he had to blow his nose. This was how children at school made fun of him, mimicking his crying: exaggerated sniffling and curling up their lips and making their lower lips tremble, the crueler ones slobbering a bit. So he was a very self-conscious crier, and one who had not seen others in the same state, and he found himself uniquely grotesque.

Mother cried, sometimes, but privately, quietly, leaving the room when her eyes began to water. Mother the human had more self-control than Spock.

Oratt rocked him softly until he had cried himself out, and when he was quieter and sniffling, she poured him some tea and handed him the cup, which he took.

"Crying is thirsty work, isn't it?"

Spock nodded, drinking deeply, and wordlessly held the cup out for more tea. The tea had cooled and was warm as blood. He rubbed his eyes and a moment later Ych'a approached with a warm, wet towel, and dabbed at his eyes. It was soothing.

"There, there," she was mumbling. "There we are. All better now."

It was not all better now, and it was never going to be better, never ever ever in all the time in the universe. But at least, for a moment, Spock felt calmer. He curled up against Oratt and felt her heartbeat steady in her flank and her measured breathing. He started to breathe as he was taught, calming techniques. One two three four five six seven, in. One two three four five six seven, out. One two three four five six seven, in. One two three four five six seven, out.

"There, now." Oratt smoothed down his hair. Ych'a looked him over.

"Oh, those little eyelids are drooping. I think it's time for bed."

Spock stayed gathered up in Oratt's lap as Ych'a laid out a bedroll for him in the living room. He crawled in, and considered protesting, but he could barely keep his eyes open. Oratt stayed by him and stroked his hair as Ych'a cleared the table, and puttered around neatening throw pillows and putting the lights out. She left on one small light by the hall to the restroom, and bid him good night as Oratt started to stand.

"Good night, Spock. You will feel much better in the morning. Sleep has a way of sorting things out."

"Grandmother, wait."

Oratt paused, half-standing, and dropped back down. Spock chewed on his fingernail.

"Yes, Spock?"

Spock furrowed his eyebrows. He felt he should say something. He wanted to say something. He was not sure what it was. It just did not feel right that Oratt leave things like this. Oratt stroked his hair again, waiting for a moment, and when Spock said nothing, she started to stand again.

"What will I do, Grandmother?"

Oratt stood up fully and paused. She looked toward the door to the bedroom, where Ych'a must still be hovering, and turned back toward the wall above Spock, stared into the middle distance for a while. Finally, she knelt and stroked Spock's hair one last time before standing.

"You will put one foot in front of the other. It is all any of us can do. It is all that has ever been done."

---

Spock did feel better in the morning, as he always did after a good cry and a good night's sleep, and as he always thought he would not. And he was irritated by this, and humbled. He did not want to feel better. It always meant the adults were right. But it was irrational, to be angry to be feeling better, so he shoved it down further and cocooned up in his bedroll, watching the rising sunbeam tracing the wall, until he heard Oratt and Ych'a stirring in the next room. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He would be horrified, for reasons he could not articulate but that felt like being caught in a spotlight, were it to be known he was first to awaken. And, sometimes adults would say interesting things if they thought you were asleep. So he waited, even though his bladder was painfully full, and felt guilty for feeling mad. He was just getting to the age where he was understanding that to show anger is not to show strength, not necessarily. That to lash out at others, especially those weaker, is a show of weakness. Oratt and Ych'a were by no means weaker than he, by any definition, but he did not want to be spoilt petulant brat.

They were talking, in the room beyond the curtain, but of nothing Spock found of consequence. Of daily plans, with Y'cha saying she would put together food packs for them, and Oratt estimating the time she would arrive back at the camp after escorting Spock home and stopping in at the shop while she was around the civilized world. They talked, for a while, over what she should get while she was there, and Spock was surprised they would shop in town, but it made sense, the more he thought about it. Some things, like phasers, and generators, and solar parts, and many other things besides, were best made at the industrial scale, and he had already seen that Oratt's people used these things. They did not reject everything scientific. It would have been less confusing if they had and stuck with fire and geothermal power. They seemed to pick and choose what parts of the mainstream world they liked, and reject the others. It made Spock uneasy. Things were still black-and-white, to him; he expected wholecloth rejection of all advances, a complete inverse of his own world. But this world was gray after all, like his own, and he was struck with the same dis-ease and finality and feeling of being trapped he felt upon realizing the adults here spoke like the adults in his own world, when it came to matters of responsibility. Nothing was different, anywhere. Trapped.

"Spock." Ych'a shadow dropped over him, and she knelt, shaking him by the shoulder. "It is time to wake up, little one."

Spock's own travel clothes were cleaned and dried, so he washed up and dressed, after finding somebody had laid out for him in the bathroom an oral hygiene kit and comb. His boots were still dusty, untouched where he had shed them last night, and he was reluctant to wear them with his clean, soap-smelling clothes. But Oratt was putting on her riding leathers and weapon holsters, so Spock pulled on his boots and gathered up his pack. Ych'a was handing them both wrapped parcels of food, and brought back Spock's filled canteen. She and Oratt embraced, touching foreheads, and Spock looked away as they kissed. Ych'a then knelt down to Spock's height, and held up the ta'al.

"Live long, and prosper, young Spock. You will find your way. But do not go running away from home like that again! The desert is dangerous, and vast."

Spock held up the ta'al. "Live long, and prosper, Grandmother Ych'a. Thank you for your hospitality and for tolerating my unacceptable outpouring of emotion. It was a burden on you and a shame to me."

"Oh, Spock." Ych'a embraced him, and Spock froze. "It was nothing of the sort. You will do just fine. You are such a smart little gentleman. Take care."

Ych'a was warm, and smelled of soap, and flowers, and warm skin. Spock finally allowed himself to wrap his arms around her shoulders for a moment, and she pushed him back by his own shoulders, looking him over. Was she about to cry?

"Grandmother, have I caused you distress?"

"No, no." Ych'a shook her head and stood, still looking down at him, smiling sadly. "You take care. Oratt, guard yourself well, and return to me."

"I will, adun." Oratt smiled down at Spock, gathering up her pack on her shoulder. "Let us join the communal fires for breakfast. I am sure news of your arrival has spread, and people are eager to talk to you."

"I do not want to talk."

"Sometimes it is best to address rumors head-on, young Spock. Come, now, we want to be off before the sun gets too high."

They emerged from the tent, Spock blinking, blinded; the sun was at an angle to reflect off the many pennants hanging from the tent across, and bright enough on its own. A child was screaming, further into the camp, and he gripped Oratt's hand and looked up for reassurance, but she did not seem concerned, so he just stayed close. They soon came to the source: a common space between tents where two boy children were tussling, and a girl child nearby was screaming at the top of her lungs for them to stop. One of the warriors grabbed the boys by the scruffs of their tunics and pulled them apart, then knelt between them and seemed to be asking them what had happened, tilting his head back and forth to listen to each boy as they tried to talk over each other. He was irritated and firm in the way of adults, but he seemed to be genuinely listening.

"Why does that girl scream?" said Spock. "She is not injured. Those boys were not in danger of injuring each other."

"One of those boys is her brother. It is upsetting to see loved ones fight."

"But screaming is irrational. Somebody could have thought she was seriously injured."

"She is a child. They scream."

Spock wanted to point out the girl seemed older than him, and that had he screamed like that without reason he would have been reprimanded—only tiny babies screamed without restraint—but he just looked back at the girl, who was now twisting the hem of her skirt and watching the boys warily. The boys were still talking to the man who had separated them. They seemed more withdrawn now, almost contrite, and the man's face had softened.

A regressive was trying to stop a fight! And, more, he was trying to get the people fighting to reason things out! Spock stared for a while. He was always told regressives indulge their most base emotions without check, and fight for no reason at all, but here one was, bare-chested and long-haired and savage, but still trying to make peace with reason and goodwill.

Oratt nudged Spock along, and as they approached a bend in the path he smelled something delicious cooking. He was horrified as they emerged from the residential path to the common to see a huge joint of flesh on a bone being rotated over a fire. It crackled and oozed fat onto the coals, where it sizzled, and Spock swallowed. He had never smelled, or seen, roasting flesh, but he had heard it was bloody, and unsanitary, and cruel. He did not expect it to smell delicious, or look like browned and roasted roots, and he was horrified with himself at the saliva collecting in his mouth. Oratt patted his shoulder.

"We have people who keep to Surak's ways, in their manner of eating, and who do not consume the flesh of beasts. We choose the teachings we follow according to our own conscience. Your brother Sybok kept to the ways of clean eating, and only ate that which is derived from plants."

Something unknotted around Spock's chest. At least Sybok was not a monster. But could you just do that—pick and choose things that you thought were wrong and right?

"But what if you have somebody who thinks it is right to kill another Vulcan, or to steal?"

Oratt laughed—Spock still found this shocking—and shook his shoulder affectionately. "You ask good questions, brother-of-Sybok. You think for yourself, like your brother. Truly, you are well-named, a society-builder."

Spock frowned a little at his feet. It was another non-answer, in the way of adults when there was something they did not want to talk about. And he was starting to suspect that sometimes it was because they did not know the answer either. The world kept getting greyer, and more confusing. Were there really no hard lines, anywhere?

Oratt lead him to the cooking fire of the vegetarians, where he ate roasted plomeek and kreyla and juice from desert fruits, and talked to the men and women who were all amused to learn he was Sybok's brother, the famous half-human, and wanted to know why he was visiting their oasis. When he was silent they let the subject drop and instead asked him about his schooling, and his music, and the latest news from the cities. It was the same tepid, pleasant conversation made by adults who honestly did not much care about the details but felt an obligation to help him develop intellectually, for the good of the many. But there was something else, with this group—a genuine curiosity, but it did not feel respectful. It was not unkindly; he would at least have known how to respond if they had been outright rude. So after a while he withdrew into his cowl while the adults turned their attention back to each other; it usually worked, if he wanted to be left alone, to act a little dull. When he and Oratt had eaten they thanked the others, Oratt in a friendly, familial manner, Spock bowing and saluting with the ta'al, and those who saw him held up their own hands automatically, some still talking to each other. One of the women commented on how he was a perfect little gentleman, and how their children could learn something from him. Oratt and Spock continued along the path toward the sehlat pens, winding to the outer rim of the rock circle.

"Grandmother, I would ask a question."

"Of course."

"Why do you mate with another female? It is not a condition that will result in children."

Oratt laughed. "I am well beyond my breeding years, young Spock. As well you see I mated in my time with a male, but there are those who prefer only the company of those of their own sex, and become bondmates, and never produce offspring. Ych'a has never taken a male as a mate. Even in your mainstream world, there are couples of the same sex, and couples of the opposite sex who cannot conceive, and even they see that there is no benefit in forcing people to pair otherwise. The strife would outweigh the benefit. Were that they could see that logic in other places."

"But it is irrational."

"Love is irrational. It is like gravity, and cannot be denied. We have evolved beyond the simplistic need to merely reproduce. We benefit from interaction alone, and carry our mating instincts to places where no offspring will result. It is wonderful, is it not?"

"But the pon farr…"

Spock chewed on his thumb, unsure how to proceed. Vulcan children were not shielded from the realities of sexual reproduction, but he still felt shy approaching the subject. Oratt seemed amused, at least, not angry.

"You think deeply. This is good. Well, it is not something you are of age to understand, but I promise you will someday. You can find satisfaction that will alleviate the pon farr without producing offspring."

"Satisfaction?"

Oratt clicked her tongue. "In a manner of speaking."

She did not seem to want to say more. Spock said, "But that defeats the purpose."

"It works enough of the time to produce enough offspring to carry on the species. Most people still prefer the companionship of the sex opposite their own. There is latitude within an organic logical system. It allows for deviations, and finds ways to benefit from them. Such a system is what we seek to create, not the rigid system outside. The system must serve the needs and happiness of the people, not contort people to fit its own requirements when their differing ways hurt nobody."

"I do not understand."

Oratt patted him on the shoulder. Spock did not stiffen, this time.

"Despite what your learning center has taught you, it is all right not to understand. You will grow into understanding."

"You speak with the logical diction of a person who has been trained in the ways of Surak."

"I was, as a child. And I do not pretend it was to no benefit. We want to retain those good aspects. Surak was a great man, and a great society-builder, but his words have been distorted, and turned to political means."

Spock thought about this for a moment. He grasped the technicalities of this. But the overall shape, the way these things fit together, he did not, as with so many things Oratt had said today. Oratt did not talk down to him as did some adults, despite the prevalent belief that one should not talk down to children as it was bad for their intellectual development, but he would have appreciated at least a little more explanation. Well, it would be what all adults said – you will grow into understanding. But that did not help him now. And adults seemed to forget how long time was, always content to wait for things.

"How do you know my brother?"

"He found us when he ran away from home one day, much like you did. He had heard rumors about us."

"Why did he not just stay here? Why did he have to go away?"

Oratt paused for so long Spock wondered if she had heard his question, but she finally sighed.

"His answers were somewhere else. We are not the only Vulcans who reject the rigid ways of Surak, young Spock. But our home is on this sand, and our bones in these rocks. We chose to make our home here. We will not be driven away from our ancestral lands."

"Grandmother Oratt, your bones seem to be in your body, where they should be."

Oratt laughed again. "Never you mind, young Spock." They were coming over the rise to the sehlat pen. "Come; we must get you home."

"But you let Sybok stay."

"Sybok was older than you are, yet at the cusp of the age of reason. Besides, no matter how many times we took him back home, he kept coming back to us. You are but a child. Besides, your parents must be worried. It is not good to cause your parents pain, as mean as they can be sometimes. If my boys had disappeared at your age I would be sick with worry."

There was an odd, deeply irrational part of Spock that wanted to say that he was not a child. But that would be nonsense, and an outright lie.

I-Chaya looked up from the food trough when they approached the pen and carefully looked Spock over, snuffing under his robes and all over. Once he was satisfied Spock was all in one piece, he lumbered back to the trough. The other sehlat moved aside and kept out of snapping range. The stockade overseer laughed and gave I-Chaya a pat on the rump, and started jumping out of his way before he had time to turn and snap at her.

"Cranky old man." She grasped Oratt's forearm in greeting over the stockade wall. "I thought I'd seen the last of that bag of bones afore I got here this morning. He's meaner and rangier than ever he was." She held up the ta'al at Spock. Spock brought his hand up as well. "Well met, young son of Sarek, brother of Sybok. I am called T'Ren."

"I am called Spock, madam." He had never heard an adult talk as she did, with words slurred together. Small children did that, and their parents promptly corrected them. But she also did not sound as though she came from anywhere he had ever visited, though she was Vulcan.

"A little mite like you, controlling that brute over there; I've never seen the like. I was shocked when Sybok first showed up riding him and he's at least three times your size." T'Ren crossed her arms and looked over his head at Oratt. "Are you to escort young Spock back to his folks, then?"

"Best to get him across the desert before the sun is high."

T'Ren turned toward the stockade. "T'Nai, gather up Rengaya for Grandmother Oratt!" She turned back to Oratt and Spock. "The children have been gossiping about you all morning. You're the talk of the camp."

Spock was not sure what to say to that. The crowd of sehlat parted, and a girl of age with Spock emerged leading the sehlat Oratt had ridden last night. She paused when she saw Spock.

"Mother, am I to also sequester I-Chaya?"

T'Ren laughed and patted her shoulder. "I'll handle that grump. I'll take Rengaya from here."

Much relieved, T'Nai nudged Rengaya toward her mother, bowed to Oratt and Spock, and bolted back among the sehlat. Oratt brought Rengaya around the stockade wall as T'Ren coaxed I-Chaya away from his food and guided him with a firm hand behind his ear toward the stockade entrance. He tried to take a few snips at her, but she dodged and said "None of that, sir," and he evidently realized trying to bite her would be a waste of energy, so he just growled and let himself be led.

As the sun was rising the sehlat were moving from the narrowly-shaded feed trough to the covered area closer to the rock and settling onto mounds of fresh hay covered in blankets. T'Ren pulled a rope and sparkling water poured from a pipe coming over the rocks into a trough under the canopy, and the sehlat roused themselves from near-sleep to get a last drink before turning in for the daylight hours. I-Chaya looked wistfully at the shade and the sleepy, yawning sehlat, but Spock rubbed his shoulder and climbed onto his back. "We will be home soon, I-Chaya."

As he said it he realized what that meant. He stared toward what he thought was the way home while T'Ren and T'Nai brought out buckets of water for Rengaya and I-Chaya to get a last drink before they set off. The bucket was almost as big as T'Nai herself but she hauled it out steadily without much sloshing, all hard muscle like her mother over a child's rangy build, and Spock was glad his own pale, stick-thin arms and soft belly were hidden under his robe. She stood by as Rengaya drank her fill and watched I-Chaya warily, folding her hands behind her back as though she was trying to keep from reaching out to him.

"He is mean," said Spock. "But he is mean to everybody but those of my blood. It is not a slight."

T'Nai nodded and looked over Spock. "You carry a lirpa. Do you practice the martial arts, in the Surakian world?"

"I do. I am training in suus mahna and next year we will start the sha'mura discipline."

"I thought the Surakians do not like violence."

"It is sometimes unavoidable, but to be avoided at all costs." He heard his teacher saying that, as he said it. T'Nai did not look impressed.

"We study both disciplines from our first step. Can you do the nerve pinch yet?"

"I cannot." He felt embarrassed, which was illogical. How can one know what one has not yet learned? T'Nai looked triumphant.

"I can nerve pinch a grown male."

"That is impossible. How do you have the hand strength at your age, with your sex?"

T'Nai crossed her arms and glared. "Males and females do not have different physical strength until the age of reason. And females are still more flexible, and more durable. Teacher says you don't have to be the strongest to win a fight, just strong enough, and accurate enough, and fast enough, to take down your opponent."

"I intended no offense."

"I heard in the Surakian world females are property of males, and we get married off as children."

"Not married, not really. Betrothed."

"I will be betrothed to no man. I will choose my own mate at my pon farr."

Spock stared down at the nape of I-Chaya's neck. He had met T'Pring just four weeks, two days, and seventeen hours prior, after he had spent the ride to her family's holding arguing with Father and Mother that he had no interest in being betrothed to somebody he had never met. Father had said that it was logical, and expedient, to have a mate selected in case when his time came he had nobody with whom to mate, and that if he met somebody more to his liking he could release T'Pring from their bond. "But you should have her in reserve," said Father. "T'Pring comes from a fine family, and you are genetically compatible. Your children would be healthy."

Spock waited for Mother to say something, but she was silent. She was staring stubbornly out the window of the hovercraft, lips pressed into a white line, clutching her skirts. Spock wanted to touch her hand, but such a show of emotion would only be met with reproach from Father.

"But, Father, what if she does not want to mate with me?"

Mother's grip on her skirts relaxed, just slightly. She smiled a little, still staring out the window, still seeming sad. Father's eyes flickered to her for just a moment.

"A woman can request a kal-if-fee if her chosen mate is not to her liking."

"What is that?"

"It is a battle in which her desired mate battles with her chosen mate. The winner takes custody of her."

Spock thought about this for a moment.

"So, a man may break off a betrothal just because he wants to, but a woman must find another mate, and that mate must be physically strong enough to best her betrothed in a physical fight?"

"It is not fair," said Father. "But, it is the way things are and have been. It ensures order, and sees to the expedient fulfillment of our most base needs."

Mother slammed the emergency stop button with the flat of her hand. Spock lurched forward and Father automatically flung his arm out to catch him, even though the seatbelts held him fast. He was glaring at Mother.

"Wife," he finally said. His voice was tight. "What emergency has arisen?"

Mother opened her door, gathered up her skirts, and got out of the car. Spock looked from Mother to Father, and something sour and tight rose up in his throat. He started to struggle with his seatbelt latch, but Father put his hand over it, still staring at Mother.

"It is a lovely day," said Mother. It was not a lovely day. The door had been open five point six seconds and the inside of the car was already getting unpleasantly hot. She looked down the road and refused to look back into the car. "I believe I will walk."

She slammed the door.

"If any Surakian told me I had to take a man as husband I would fight him, and win," said T'Nai. Spock looked up from I-Chaya's neck. It had gone still; I-Chaya had emptied the bucket and was snoozing on his feet. Oratt and T'Ren were talking several paces away.

"I relinquish," said Spock after a few moments and the car had started again. Father just sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I am freeing T'Pring right now. I am not getting engaged."

"You cannot do that until you reach the age of pon farr."

"Why?"

"Because." Father hesitated. His jaw worked in that minute way it did when he had to explain something he would rather not. "Because you will develop biological needs that must be addressed. And a female must be in reserve to relieve them, or you will die. Females, also, develop these urges, and must relieve them. You do not understand now."

"Then explain it to me, Father."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"It is a need. And one cannot understand a need until one feels it."

"Is it to do with sex?"

"It is, yes."

"I do not want it. It sounds distasteful. I will never want it."

Father closed his eyes for longer this time, looked up for patience for a moment.

"It is an unfair arrangement, to women, even though they also benefit, even though they must also have a mate," he finally said. "You know this because you are a good child. But this is our biology, and it cannot be denied under pain of death. It is illogical to deny. This is the most logical way to ensure our survival. Women come to know this, with age. Life is not fair, Spock."

"Spock, it is time to leave."

Oratt had drawn near, on the side opposite the sun, so Spock had noticed no change in light. He started out of his reverie and realized he had been slouching, drew himself up properly. T'Nai stuck her tongue out and ran behind her mother, who was holding up the ta'al. Spock and Oratt responded, and T'Ren nudged T'Nai until she grudgingly came out behind her mother's legs and also gestured, and grumbled "Live long, and prosper", at the ground as the rest exchanged the words clearly. Oratt nudged Rengaya around out toward the open desert with her legs, and Spock nudged I-Chaya to follow her. The sun was blinding, so he closed his inner eyelids and waited for his eyes to re-adjust to the light being re-directed.

They fell into a lope and Spock got his balance on I-Chaya's swinging back. After a while he fell to half-drowsing and thinking, about his conversation with T'Nai, about his betrothal, about Oratt and her female mate and those nebulous 'needs' Father had mentioned that he thought had to be linked to Oratt's talk about 'satisfaction'. It was the unspoken undercurrent of all conversations surrounding pon farr and mating, and yet, no adult wanted to state what exactly it was.

The desert was flat for miles before the house, which one could see from a good distance, as today the wind was still and the dust settled but for the cloud kicked up by the sehlat. By the time he and Oratt drew close Mother and Father were already waiting outside. Spock swallowed and drew himself down small. Oratt had drawn back to pace him and nudged him with her toe.

"Sit up straight, young Spock. Approach your parents with pride."

Spock drew himself up and blinked his inner eyelids several times to clear the dust, rubbed the corners of his eyes. Mother had both hands over her mouth, and as Spock drew closer she ran out to him and hugged him as I-Chaya came up short, grumbling at the human suddenly in his way. She lifted Spock off I-Chaya and looked him over for damage. I-Chaya huffed and lumbered off toward his barn.

"Oh, Spock! Spock!" Mother hugged him tight, pulled away, and shook him, angry. "Don't you ever do that again! You had me worried sick!"

"I am sorry, Mother."

Mother hugged him tight again, stroking his hair. "Oh, you naughty boy!" She pulled back, again, to get a good look at him. Her eyes were welling up. Was she angry, or happy? "Never again, do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mother. I am sorry."

She hugged him again. He was getting a little dizzy being whipped back and forth like that. He looked around her shoulder to see Father, who was just staring at him with an unfathomable expression. When his stare did not waver Spock felt like he was going to throw up and instead looked up at Oratt, who had dismounted Rengaya and walked her close to Spock and Mother. Mother let go of Spock and grasped both of Oratt's leathery, scarred hands in her cream-white ones.

"Grandmother Oratt, again you look after my wayward sons. I cannot thank you enough."

Oratt moved one of her hands out of Mother's grip to put it firmly on top of her hands. "Think nothing of it, Lady Amanda. I know a mother's worry." She looked up at Sarek, who was still staring at Spock.

"Lord Sarek. It has been many months."

Sarek regarded her for a few long seconds. Finally, he bowed.

"Grandmother Oratt. I thank you for bringing my son home safely, and for your continued defense of my blood."

"You have some fine sons, Sarek. They are adventuresome and brave. They will be great society-builders someday, and are well-named."

Sarek's eyes narrowed very slightly. "You use the plural to refer to my male offspring. I have one son and one male of my blood, who has been severed from this family."

Oratt pressed her lips together. They stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Oratt nudged her sehlat around with her knees and held up the ta'al at Spock in farewell.

"Be proud of who you are, young Spock. You are a child of two worlds and have full claim to both. Never forget that. Live long, and prosper."

Spock reciprocated the signal. "Farewell, honored Grandmother Oratt. I thank you for your protection. Live long, and prosper."

Oratt nodded and turned away. And, then, she was off. Spock looked up at his parents to see that Sarek was still holding up the ta'al and staring after the dust cloud, although his lips were pressed into a thin line and his eyes were narrowed. Amanda held her hand to her chest, looking from Spock to Sarek. It was the look of somebody awaiting a sudden strike, or a disaster they knew would happen soon, but not exactly when. Spock wanted to hug his mother, but Sarek already looked angry enough. He folded his hands behind his back and stepped in front of his parents, and bowed.

"I am sorry. I have committed a grave offense. I have snuck out of your home while under your care and caused you undue worry." His lip was quivering. He sniffed—hard—and pressed his lips together to keep from crying. His throat hurt. He finally took a blustering breath and clasped his hands harder. "I will undertake any correction you deem appropriate."

His parents did not reply. Spock finally looked up and saw Sarek staring at him with that distant, unknowable expression. Amanda was covering her mouth with both hands and her eyes were wet.

They just stared, for a while. Sarek finally stepped forward and Spock looked at the ground, flinched, expecting his father to finally strike him. But he stopped, and Spock glanced up to see Amanda touching his father's arm, silently beseeching. Sarek looked into her eyes, and there was a silent conversation between them. Finally Sarek sighed and faced Spock, folding his hands behind his back.

"I accept your apology and acknowledge your contrition." He thought for a moment, jaw minutely working, and Amanda touched his arm again. "Let us talk, son. There is a great deal weighing on your mind and this magnitude of misbehavior is well out of character for you. We will reason out your troubles and find a logical solution."

---

They did talk about it. For a long time, for many times, they talked, and Spock thought things would finally get better, and that his father had finally understood him. But they didn't, and they kept having the same conversations, and the same arguments, year after year. Spock got better at putting his feelings into words, and as his thoughts became more ordered their conversations became more productive, but nothing changed. Not for long, not permanently.

After a few particularly bad 'talks', Spock had seriously considered running back to Oratt's tribe, but Sybok was gone, and I-Chaya dead, and with them the directions to the oasis. And upon sober reflection he realized he would not fit in entirely there, either. They seemed more tolerant of divergence, but he still did not feel that was a home for him. He liked science, and empirical reasoning, and the best trappings of Federation living; these were not things he could surrender, even in exchange for greater emotional freedom.

He took a third option and joined Starfleet. He knew he was never going to find a place he fit in, but at the very least, he might be at peace there. It seemed the best compromise to accommodate his need for scientific and intellectual rigor in his life, and to keep his curiosity satisfied. He knew he would be an outsider again, among humans, but he thought he could better tolerate being the Vulcan among humans than the human among Vulcans.

It worked out that way, in the end. But it took a while.

---

"Mr. Spock?"

Spock looked up from his PADD. The new captain—Kirk—slid into the chair next to him and plopped his tray down. Spock had gotten used to the barbaric human custom of consuming flesh, but the smell still made his stomach rebel, a little, even when it was replicated. It was getting better, but he still had the involuntary disgust reaction. It was one of the few emotional shows Vulcans would allow. Kirk blinked and withdrew a little in surprise.

"Something wrong?"

This was why reading in the common room was a mistake. People always tried to talk to him and make friends. It was a waste of time for all parties involved. They would inevitably find him dull and alien and cold, and that would be the end of that.

He'd befriended humans before. Those friendships were few and far between and there was always a distance, in the end. He'd read distance was inherent in any human relationship. There was a void there, the old Earth writers talked about, that could never be bridged, and people always felt alone in the end. And that was between two humans. A human and a Vulcan could respect each other—he did respect Captain Pike—and even have a good rapport, but making friends was a waste of time. Even his parents' relationship felt distant, despite the love there. But a hybrid could be fully friends with nobody.

Spock placed his PADD on the table and folded his hands. "No. Can I help you, Captain?"

Kirk grinned and patted him on the shoulder. If he noticed that Spock stiffened, he did not show it, at first. "At ease, Commander. I just wanted to get to know my first officer better. Oh." He withdrew his hand. "That's right; you're a touch-telepath. Sorry. I haven't had many dealings with Vulcans."

"There was no offence taken, Captain."

There really was not; Kirk had not meant anything by it and it would be irrational to be angry at an unintentional rudeness. He still wanted to withdraw into a psychic shell and bolt. He had once told a clueless and very forward roommate at the Academy that touching a Vulcan without permission, even through clothing, was on the same level of intimacy and rudeness as grabbing a human's genitals, even though clothing. This was an exaggeration but it seemed to get the point across and the roommate had made an effort, at least, to keep his hands to himself. Since then Spock had gotten more used to it, but he still had that involuntary stiffening reaction, like he was readying to ward off some sort of psychic assault.

What he did not know at that point was that Kirk was physically affectionate on a level extreme even for humans and prone to hugging and friendly grasping and touching without any second thought. His Vulcan discipline backfired, here—to the average human observer he seemed completely unaffected, so the crew kept doing it. What he did not know at that point was that Kirk's touch would affect him more than others', and that it would be a pleasurable affect, like being touched by rays of sunlight on bare skin, and that, in many ways, made it worse. He did get used to it. He was almost sorry he did, sometimes.

Kirk was forward and irritating and infuriatingly friendly. He was a legendary—some would say infamous—young hotshot still in his Terran thirties and Spock had found his Kobayashi Maru reports disquieting and intriguing. It would be years—many years—even after they had become close, that he would ever admit that he was fascinated by Kirk before he took command of the Enterprise, ever since that incident had become known. It was also too difficult to explain those feelings were shot with a weird animosity and—horror, almost. To a Vulcan a victory coming from belligerent illogic and blind optimism and cheating was like something out of a cautionary tale, and those tales always ended in tragedy. He was still—irrationally, he realized, with awareness of the irony—waiting for the universe to make its narrative point— that sort of action could not stand and nothing fruitful could come of it.

The universe never did. And now this man was in charge of his ship. He had been making him feel deeply irrational, conflicted things before they had even met and now he was in charge of his ship and he was sitting here trying to make friends.

He talked with his mouth full. The man could not even stop chattering long enough to chew his food. Spock wanted to reprimand him the way Vulcan parents did with children who behaved that way, but he just primly clutched his folded hands and narrowed his eyes, very slightly.

"…really want to know what it was like to work for Chris Pike. The man is a legend, an absolute legend. I can't believe I'm expected to fill his shoes." Kirk laughed a little. "I know you all loved and admired him. And here I am, some young upstart with… pretentions to taking his place. You guys must be rather disappointed."

Kirk laughed. Few people would realize he genuinely was nervous. Spock arched an eyebrow. Wasn't this man supposed to be suffering from delusions of grandeur and a greatly inflated sense of self?

"So, what do you do in your spare time? I know Vulcans are a pretty disciplined bunch but I'm sure you have leisure activities."

Spock shrugged with his eyebrows and faced forward. Kirk's smile was like the sun and he did not like the irrational effect it was having on him. "I read. I practice the lyre. I play chess. Typical and edifying activities."

"Reading!" Spock looked at Kirk, slightly shocked, again; his face had lit up even more. "What are your favorite books? Favorite authors?"

"…of the authors you might be familiar with—"

"Oh, I've read Vulcan works, too. I mean, we all head to read Surak's teachings at the Academy for cultural sensitivity training but I read some of his apocryphal works, and I really liked the Edicts and N'Keth's translations of the Forge Cycle and Taurik the Elder's plays. It's a really…" He gestured with his fork like he was looking for a word. "…fluid translation. I mean, I don't speak Vulcan, but I really got the feeling I was listening to a Vulcan epic. Supposedly his translations are some of the best, according to people who are bilingual. Lieutenant Uhura and I were just talking about him last week."

If Spock's eyebrows could have gone any higher, they would have disappeared into his bangs. Kirk hesitated, his fork hovering halfway over his plate. "…is that a totally wrong interpretation? Sorry, it must be very arrogant for a human to make…" He thought for a moment. "…assertions about Vulcan literature to a Vulcan."

Spock shook his head a little more emphatically than he planned. "Not at all, Captain. I am just surprised you know the Cycle. Not even many Vulcans have read it." 'Surprised' honestly did not begin to cover it. "For what it is worth, I agree with you that N'Keth's translations are superb. They retain the tone and implications of the original in a masterful way, and yet, they are lyrical and… fluid, as you said… in their translated tongue."

Kirk grinned and swatted him on the upper arm. "I had a feeling you were a man of good taste." He stopped and scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I forgot again."

Spock shook his head. "Think nothing of it, Captain."

This time, it did not really bother him. And that bothered him.

"You said you play chess?" said Kirk.

---

There was a part of the Kaniel myth he did not know, when he was a child, making that desperate wish out in the desert. The teacher had told them a shortened version of his appearance in the Forge Cycle. Spock read the full version six years two days and five hours later.

"Ask somebody their deepest desires, and they will show you their deficiencies."

It was what Kaniel said to a wise man, who wanted to know what purpose it served him to ask people their wishes.

The response struck Spock as important, but he did not know why. He knew intellectually it was a line of great weight, but he did not feel it.

He returned to the Cycle three years five months and ten hours later, in the fullness of adolescence. And he understood, but did not want to face it.

He returned to the Cycle ten years twelve months and two hours after that, and, finally, he was willing to understand.

Understanding is cheap. It is doing something with that understanding that is hard.

Instead, like that small child in the desert, he ran the other way, toward kolinahr.

"I do not want to feel things anymore."

It really was not any different.