A/N: My first prompt! Thank you very much to JM2010 for offering me this challenge. I've tweaked it a little bit, because apparently I'm glutton for punishment and coming up with difficult pairings.
The prompt (neutered to remove spoilers):
A Vulcan man and non-Vulcan woman are brought together through grief of loosing family and loved ones in Nero's attack.
Sorry it's taken so dang long for me to actually post this thing. (I'll admit, Mr. Nimoy's passing reminded me that I'd written this but never posted it.) Got several chapters ready to go, but expect an every-other-week-or-so update schedule as I'm a weirdo and am trying to illustrate while I write things.
Cross posted on Ao3 under the same sn.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, I make no profit from this work. It's only an exercise for fun, yadda yadda. Original characters are my own; other than that, the universe is under the auspices of Gene Roddenberry's house, Paramount's publishership, and JJ Abrams additions.
"Mr. Awih'len!"
The young Vulcan straightened up from the hole he kneeled in. A group of Sol-tanned humans in denim work clothes followed behind the helmeted supervisor. Against all sense of his own biology, Mr. Randy Engels wore his usual long-sleeved button down shirt, thin tie, creased black pants, and glossy black shoes. Spackled now with tan and red sand. Suited, perhaps, to the office portion of his job, but within the artificial atmosphere of this system of domes the human quickly acquired damp patches around his collar, under his arms, and at the small of his back. Even the sleeve at his wrist darkened as he continuously wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Finally got you some local help!"
Awih'len climbed out of the irrigation hole as they drew near. A couple of them blinked up at him in apparent surprise – either over his height or his species.
"The assistance is appreciated, Mr. Engels."
"They're all locals, so hopefully they'll be more prepared for the heat," Mr Engels said, already wiping the sweat from his forehead in his usual fashion.
Awih'len lifted a curious eyebrow at the helmeted human. "From the reports you have detailed to me, I was lead to believe that the local temperatures here rarely surpassed forty degrees celsius. Am I incorrect?"
"Yeah. I mean, no. They don't. But it's not like we can expect someone from the east coast to come in and be able to work a full twelve hour day!"
His recollection of the Earth labor laws were a bit different, but he'd learned early on that repeated correction of humans – especially human males – typically led to ill will.
Mr. Engels did a mumbled bit of introduction to the group, clearly pronouncing his name, if not the laborers. A couple of the men exchanged greetings of their own, even going so far as to extend their hands for greetings.
Over the years of setting up these habitats across this planet, and dealing with a variety of cultures, he'd learned that it was easier – more expedient – to meet this greeting in kind, rather than take the time to explain how, in his culture, it was far too intimate an act. The first time had been embarrassing – the land owner stood at his side, insisting that he shake hands before they move on to the work – but with his shields firm, emotions firmly in check, and thick leather gloved on, the faux pas could be... tolerated.
The last man in the group, Manuel Suarvez, possibly the youngest for the lack of lines about his eyes, gave his hand a hard up and down jerk, his fingers exerting impressive force for his species.
"You all just follow Mr. Awih'len," Mr. Engels insisted with a tight, thin smile. "Just let me know if there's any problems," he directed towards the Vulcan before disappearing back the way he came.
"So, what're we making here, Mr. Awih'len?"
"Just Awih'len will do," he corrected, gentle. "Considering our duties and the short duration of our acquaintance, there is little purpose in honorifics." Another adaptation he'd picked up a couple "jobs" ago. "This biome is set to mimic a specific arid environment from the planet Vulcan. Rather than being an authentic replica, the intent is to produce fruits and vegetables to meet the horticultural needs of the local university – providing natural supplements and vital nutrients to the Vulcanoid student population, any plants needed for scientific experimentation, and to provide nutrition to the animals in the behavioral de-"
"Right. Garden."
Awih'len nodded once, making a mental note to be more concise.
"Precisely."
"What's up with the fancy patterns," asked Manuel.
"Fancy patterns?"
"Yeah. You've got some weird looking holes started. Aren't ya going to plant in rows?"
"Ah. Rows might be the most logical solution for large fields with mechanized equipment to till, plow, sow, water, and harvest. Because this is a small, enclosed environment, direct contamination is a concern."
"That why we had to wash our hands and boots and put these stupid paper booties on?" Manuel lifted his foot, pointing to the pale blue covering.
"Indeed."
"Doesn't explain the flower pattern, though."
Awih'len looked out at the desert field. He'd dug a few holes to prep the area, admittedly fewer than he'd wanted to get done by now. This particular area he'd marked off with pegs to find the most efficient arrangement for irrigation purposes. Blue pegs marked off where the clay ollas would be buried, and surrounding each of these pegs were eight others, designating one of a handful of succulents that were intended for this area. By surrounding each of the watering stations with the plants, every cubit millimeter of space would be utilized, with enough bare area between each growing area to allow one person to walk comfortably between, with the buckets of purified water.
"That is simply the most logical pattern to utilize."
"Come on, Manny. Stop bothering the foreman. We're here to work, not gab."
Awih'len directed them to the provided tools while internally debating how much needed to be explained to get the required tasked accomplished.
The glass filtered the New Mexico sunlight into something soft, to his eyes, but the humans swiftly adjusted their attire as they worked, most removing their shirts, putting on sunglasses, tugging on wetted bandanas or brimmed hats. Within a few moments they were prepared and joined him around one of the freshly dug holes.
"I am having some difficulty getting the required depth without collapsing the neighboring holes," he admitted.
"Need them so close together?" Jorge, who appeared to be the oldest of the group, but that might have been the effects of long exposure to the native star and a proliferation of fine lines around his eyes and mouth.
"The primary markers, the blue pegs, need to be one point nine five meters deep, so that the ollas – those vases – will fit to the marker on their neck once buried."
Awih'len pointed towards the bisque fired crockery. Manuel attempted to lift one by the neck – possibly to bring it closer to the hole to measure it's depth – but succeeded in only shifting it slightly with a loud grunt.
Jorge and GP rounded on him to assist.
"This hole is not deep enough yet; no use bringing it over until it is."
"Measuring stick, then," Jorge decided. GP nodded and turned to find one.
"Maybe if we wet the ground?" Manuel suggested, coming back to the hole. "Like with a sand castle?"
"Could work," Jorge murmured into his facial hair. "Get me a shovel, kid. Let's see how deep we can get it before it starts falling in on itself."
The Vulcan clambered out of the hole, allowing the humans to take over the space. They flung the dirt farther away than he had – leading to more work later and partially obscuring the secondary markers surrounding it – but they were more successful in getting closer to the necessary depth. The aerated nature of this particular sand-soil mix leant towards easy moving. Sometimes too easy; the sides collapsed in on themselves as the men quickly shoveled the particles up and out of the way.
"Just about the right depth," GP declared, keeping an eye on the line of tape he'd wrapped around the handle of a shovel to indicate the marker on the ollas.
Awih'len nodded and went over to the crockery. They'd been mold-pored from a pale red terra cotta clay. He'd utilized this particular manufacturer on three other job sites, and found the work impeccable.
She threw the original shape for him on a wheel, allowing him to stand by and make comments about the shape of the belly, the thickness of the neck, the opening at the top. The ratios for each biome, indeed, within a biome, were quite specific. If the neck were too wide or the opening too large, then all the water would simply evaporate away. If the belly too deep, then all the water would seep out into the ground underneath the growth of the roots. The walls too thick, the water could not seep out, too thin, the roots – of some plants – might wrap around the clay and shatter it, leading to whomever tended this flora to digging out the ollas and dealing with the delicate surgery needed to remove the shards from the established plant roots.
This particular set stood a few centimeters over a two meters tall. The bottoms were tapered to blunt points – they needed no feet to stand upright, so the excess clay would be a waste. Instead, the fabricator had supplied wooden crates that supported them by their bellies, until they were ready to bury. The necks were wide enough for two of his tapered fingers to delve inside, as long as his forearm, and the opening just as wide across as his palm. Once everything was settled, wide stones placed over the tops served well enough to keep insects out. The bodies of this set bowed out nearly as wide as his shoulders.
"Need help with those?" The young man tagged about in his shadow.
"I am quite capable," Awih'len responded before wrapping his bare arms around the vessel and lifting it up and over the wooden lips of the supports.
"Wow."
The Vulcan did not waste time lifting an eyebrow at the stunned statement from the short human. True, his greater strength and reach made the task possible – but he had to be careful lifting it, avoid knocking it against the supports they'd been shipped in, and breaking the heavy vessel.
The crew surrounded him, guiding him to the hole he couldn't see. All of them attempted to guide him, each in different terms and distances. The terra cotta slipped in his leather-clad hands as he looked around it to ascertain who had the right of it.
"Down down!"
"Easy does it-"
"You got it, just a little farther-"
"Just let it slide down the side and then-"
"Oof!" Awih'len's foot slipped on the rough incline. The vase's bottom caught on something and knocked into him, tipping his already tenuous balance over.
The Vulcan landed on his ass, pinned between crumbling, wet sand and terra cotta.
"Quick! Get it off of him!"
"I am uninjured," he said with a groan.
"Other than your dignity, maybe. Come on, boys. Heave it up!"
Between the humans, arms trembling with their efforts, they got the vessel off of him and pointed roughly upright at the bottom of the hole.
"You sure you okay, Boss?" GP asked.
"Winded," Awih'len admitted. "But I will survive."
"What'd we do with it now?" Manuel asked.
"Replace the substrate, packing it tightly so that the vessel does not shift as it is filled with water."
"Uh-"
"Put the dirt back in the hole, dummy," Jorge said with a grin. "You three, keep it upright, and we'll shovel. Awih'len? How 'bout you keep an eye on it and make sure it stays plumb."
The Vulcan regained his footing, tugged his shirt into some semblance of order, and did his best to guide the men as they slowly returned the earth to it's former location.
The final result, once he'd tamped down the sand, was a slight hillock, with three centimeters of terra cotta lip protruding.
"Rock on! We got it! Now what?"
"Now, we place the remaining two-hundred and forty-nine of these vessels. Then we place the five hundred smaller vessels in the adjacent biome. After this is accomplished, we can begin transplanting the flora."
"You just had to ask, eh, Manny?"
The young man gave a sheepish grin but gamely hopped over to the next blue marker and began digging.
"All this by hand, eh?" Jorge asked him.
Awih'len nodded. "We are recreating a very delicate biosphere that has been difficult to reproduce, even on Vulcan. If runoff from another facility contaminates this one, even a few loose particles caught in a wheel or dripping from the housing in a rain, then the balance might be disrupted and-"
"Got it, boss. All by hand. Keep clean while we're in here."
Awih'len sighed and nodded.
He picked up a discarded shovel and put his shoulders to work and tried to blank his mind to all but the work.
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the assistance – he always did, those rare times that those who'd hired him to oversee these constructions had a large enough or long enough project to require them – but the succinct, unscientific minds that surrounded him on this planet were... dull. Where he ached to have a lengthy discussion of the merits of aesthetic horticulture, and how one might plan for a site to not only be functional, but pleasing to the eye, others simply wished to see the task accomplished. Or, perhaps, a new, more efficient usage for mixed plantings, perhaps attempting to use alswet stalks as the growing platform for gerwalli beans, as long, of course, as the stalks were started early in a hot house so that their seasonal cycle would put their strongest point – just after harvest of the fruit, but before the reaping of the sturdy stalks for their fibers – would be able to support the heavy weight of the gerwalli as they sucked up vital fluids before hibernating.
"Srrk'kar Awih'len."
The young Vulcan blinked up noting, peripherally, that the tone his name had been stated in indicated that it hadn't been the first time the speaker attempted to gain his attention.
He'd picked a spot to dig a little away from the others, or they'd picked a spot a little away from him. Regardless, they now stood, only heads showing above ground like some demented planting. Staring, of course, and the cluster of Vulcans surrounding him. Each immaculate: perfectly cut black hair unruffled by work or massive ventilators, naturally pale skin nearly translucent and glowing from the green blood within thanks to a quiet, indoor life. Robes neatly gathered at perfectly fitting hems at shoulder and throat, the crisply embroidered rata, tafar, tapan over their sternums gleamed a silvery newness.
Awih'len clawed his way up to their level, gave his clothes a quick dusting – entirely too aware that he'd fallen in the sand and hadn't taken the time to neaten himself – before lifting his hand in the ta'al.
A short, downward quirk of the woman's lips made him pause, before he realized he still wore the over-sized leather workman's gloves. He slipped them off, refusing to blush from embarrassment, and held them in his non-dominant hand.
"We have come to inspect the work, to date, at this facility," she stated in the educated accent he'd become used to hearing from the high-level individuals from the VSA. Her hands remained in the voluminous sleeves of her dark grey robe as she introduced the fellows to either side of her. "Administrator Sh'vank. Subcommander Sarat. I am Captain T'Veden."
"Administrator, Captain, Subcommander," Awih'len greeted in turn, attempting to keep the deep rural rumble from inflecting his Golic.
"Report," the Captain clipped at him.
He toyed with the idea of standing at parade rest a moment but gave as mature and professional a nod as possible down at the officers and indicated with a sweep of his hand a logical place to begin their tour.
"As you can see, we are at the primary stage of the irrigation system."
"From our reports, the rain fall in this sector is more than adequate for the task of a few equatorial farm fields."
Awih'len blinked in confusion at the Administrator.
"Closed system, sir," the subcommander supplied. "While humidity in this region is at a tolerable five to ten percent mean, throughout the year, the temperatures are such that a frost is capable of reducing the crop to non-viable status."
The administrator huffed. Awih'len nodded a subtle thanks to the subcommander for the explanation.
The human workers stared openly as Awih'len lead the cluster of officials past where he'd been directing them. The Vulcan spared a moment's curiosity wondering if any of them understood Golic.
Most likely not, he decided.
"Please continue the irrigation pits," he said to them, in Earth Standard, before he was out of their hearing range. They went into sudden motion, digging with a scurrying frenzy. He blinked in confusion at their sudden vigor. "I will return shortly to move the vessels."
"We'll leave them to you, Boss. No problem."
Awih'len's lips twitched downward at the sudden elevation of his status to Boss. A none-too-subtle clearing of a throat brought his attention back to his compatriots.
"I doubt I shall ever comprehend the actions of the human species," the Captain stated. The pinch of her nostrils told him that her stronger olfactory senses had been offended. By the humans? He glanced back at the men, already waist deep and disappearing fast into the substrate.
"They are merely curious. We are most likely the first sentient non-human individuals that they have ever seen in person. I have found that this species, while often unpredictable, has an innate curiosity that..." his voice trailed off at the three identical, uncomprehending stares directed his way.
"Perhaps you have been on this planet for too long," Administrator Sh'vank decided.
Awih'len did not flinch away or grit his teeth. "What feature would you like me to present to you first?"
"The decontamination systems," the subcommander suggested. "Have you had any difficulties keeping up protocols while getting the framework in place?"
"No," Awih'len said, directing his feet in the proper direction. "I have utilized a specialist whom I have worked with on previous tasks. While the environmental complications of this habitat are more precise than the others, we have only to test certain modifications, rather than make solutions of wholecloth."
Much to Awih'len's discomfort, the delegation remained for the rest of the available daylight. Ostensibly, they had come to make sure that everything was continuing to plan. In reality, each of the had a basic knowledge in the theory of horticulture and decided that – considering his station well below theirs – it was their task to test every element of his planning to insure the project was not destined to fail.
Awih'len theorized that the captain had practical experience in planet-wide terraforming, based on her suggesting such... impractical changes as slowing the rotation of the planet by a hundredth of a percent to increase the daylight to the correct amount. The administrator blindly agreed with the captain, obviously leaning on her hands on experience, along with advocating more impractical adornments to enhance the visual aesthetics of the dome. Attempting to explain that thwona ferns needed more standing water than the dome could support was met with a dismissive flick of the fingers and an note in the file to order water barrels to hold them. Ssdgnk held the potential to hybridize with some of the flowering fruit trees, producing a poisonous plant on second generation that would have to be carefully weeded. Gvudm had meditative uses, certainly, but only the priestesses of certain orders had access to their seeds. And if the leaves, rather than the pollen, was harvested by nonVulcanoid volunteers from the school... Awih'len attempted to delicately explain the negative hallucinogenic side effect and ended up stonewalled with the "simple solution" of "Then only Vulcans shall be employed with maintaining the crops."
Whenever he attempted to explain that wasn't a feasible plan – the amount of labor needed to do basic maintenance and upkeep of a full biome meant asking at least six full time students to also pull work study hours along the order of thirty hours a week – he was shot down immediately and informed that his task was to plant not to plan.
As the sun set and the automatic lights came on – Awih'len's solution for the shortened daylight – the local workers and Mr. Engels all gathered around their little cluster. Mr. Engels wrung his hands, obviously uncomprehending of the situation and nervous about whatever it was the officials were discussing with his appointed foreman. The local men were drenched in sweat and caked with dirt. Awih'len regretted loosing a day's work with them and vowed to himself to be of better assistance on the next day.
"Is there a problem?" Mr. Engels asked, when Administrator Sh'vank paused to breathe.
"There are some... complications," Awih'len attempted to be diplomatic.
"They are not complications," Captain T'Veden said in clipped Earth Standard. "The required modifications will increase productivity of crops and include other non-edible produce."
"Oh!" Mr. Engels brightened, his white grin splitting his face in a thoroughly distressing manner. "Is that all?"
"The adjustments to this biome have an up-to thirty percent chance of increasing yields of edible materials," Awih'len said. "At the cost of increasing the temperature of the dome by ten degrees Celsius, making extensive adjustments to the day-night schedule, and requiring at least four more workers on an ongoing basis to maintain these changes."
"It is a minimal adjustment in exchange for greater efficiency," the captain argued.
"I have already calculated the needs for this environment to be at it's greatest efficiency," Awih'len countered. "There is a limit where increasing productivity in exchange for the cost of labor, materials, draining the soil of it's reserves-"
"It's just solar energy," Mr. Engels equivocated. The tone of his voice uncertain. The fingers pressing against his thigh as he counted numbers to himself obvious.
"I have currently routed all available solar power to the heat generators," Awih'len stated. "We draw off of the grid for all other electrical uses."
"We... draw off of the grid at night for the heat?" The human asked. Awih'len nodded. "We'll just have to put up more solar panels. And get backup generators. ...And get backup batteries for night use. ...How much over budget will that put us?"
Awih'len did a quick calculation based on previous jobs. "At least seventy-five percent of last year's operating budget to be able to cover the minimum increased power usage, if you wish to no longer rely on the outside grid for assistance."
"Crap."
"And you will need to purchase more land, or rights to lands, as well. Your acreage is at capacity."
"What about the east fields?"
Awih'len shook his head. "They do not receive adequate daylight to be useful for a solar field. You would not recoup the loss of the initial investment in additional power gain."
Mr. Engels looked back and forth between the Vulcans surrounding him. Awih'len hadn't been working with the man for long, but he trusted that he'd see the sheer folly of these changes. For a long stretch of silence, his stout shoulders were pulled back, jaw set.
"Administrator Sh'vank? Perhaps we can talk in private."
"As you wish."
Awih'len remained where he was as the short human, dappled in sweat stains, lead the delegation off to discuss their plans.
"Well, that looks like bullshit if ever I saw it," Manuel said.
The Vulcan blinked down, surprised to see the men surrounding him with various inscrutable looks pointed at the cluster walking away.
"Bullshit?" Awih'len quoted.
"Oh great, you taught the alien to cuss," Jorge murmured.
"Excrement from a beast of burden," Awih'len clarified. "I am aware it is intended to be a rude statement, but not why Manuel chooses to use it."
As the labors gathered around and filled his ears with a mixture of sympathetic remarks about idiot bosses and anecdotes meant to raise his spirits, his eyes traveled back to Mr. Engel. The sudden droop of his rolled shoulders. The long nod and the vague gesture for the Vulcans to follow him to his trailer. In that moment Awih'len realized he'd lost the battle for bureaucratic sanity and any hopes of finishing this project on time, on budget... or perhaps, at all.