Prologue
On her daughter's eighth birthday, M'Umbha Uhura told her to put on her favorite dress and new shoes because she had a treat for her. Nyota, even then not fond of surprises, pestered her mother all afternoon about where they could possibly be going, especially just the two of them. M'Umbha fastened a little comb with a red flower into her daughter's neat bun and said "Nyota, if you keep asking me, we are not going anywhere. Learn some patience. I promise you'll like it."
The two boarded a transport that zipped them from the port city of Mombasa to the glittering lights and tall buildings of Nairobi. Nyota pressed her face against the glass eagerly. It had been some time since they had travelled, and she rarely had her mother to herself.
They got off not far from the main campus of University of Nairobi. Soon they joined the small crowd forming outside of the National Theatre on the north side of campus. Nyota peeked through the well-dressed bodies at the screen displaying the night's entertainment.
"A ka'athyra performance?" she cried in surprise, tugging her mother's sleeve enthusiastically. Her eyes were bright with anticipation.
"That's right, Nyota. By none other than Ambassador Sarek, Vulcan's most accomplished player. A friend of mine at the university pulled some strings to get us an invitation."
Nyota tried to hug her mother while jumping up and down on her toes. She had been going through a phase lately of obsessing over traditional Vulcan music. She listened to hours of recordings of ka'athyra performances, driving her sister absolutely insane, and tried to convince her voice teacher to let her sing in Vulcan, despite the fact that neither knew how to speak the language. She was eager to begin class five, when students were given the option of picking up a third language in addition to Swahili and Standard. Nyota already knew what her choice would be.
Their seats were a modest distance from the stage, but the sound was sharp and clear. Nyota closed her eyes and leaned back, resisting the urge to hum along with the familiar hymns. The recordings could not even come close to the pleasure of hearing the song in person, all of the subtleties of sound unfolding in the shell of her ear.
The second to last song was a duet. The middle-aged Vulcan stood and Nyota opened her eyes to observe him. His dark hair already showed signs of gray, and gentle creases were beginning their journey from the corners of his eyes and lips. "I will be joined in this song by my son—" the rest of the ambassador's sentence was interrupted by a cough from the man sitting in front of her.
Nyota leaned forward. She didn't realize he had a son. One of the stage hands procured a chair and a boy of perhaps ten or eleven crossed the stage holding a smaller ka'athyra in his hands. His dark little head had a miniature version of his father's straight cut hair, little pointed ears poking from either side. They bowed their heads to each other, took their seats, and began.
The boy was not as proficient as his father, this much was clear. He was, however, unusually gifted. At such a young age, he managed to play with more nuance than some of the recordings she regularly listened to. Nyota leaned over and pressed her lips to her mother's ear. "He's so good!" she whispered in Swahili.
M'Umbha smiled and raised a finger to her lips.
At the reception afterwards, they stayed only briefly. M'Umbha explained that it would be rude to leave without spending some time with her friend who had so graciously gotten them admission to the exclusive event, but promised to take Nyota out for any dessert she liked afterwards.
Nyota wandered away from her mother after a while. There were no children at the event; tall adults of various species lingered in groups, holding glasses of wine and ale. They paid little attention to the small girl weaving about. The reception room, in the new addition behind the original Kenya National Theatre, opened into a beautifully lit garden behind a row of glass paneled French doors, all flung wide open to the night air. Only a handful of guests had wandered outside; the humidity in Nairobi at that time of year was oppressive and unpleasant. Nyota stepped out and circled the fountain. She fished a small toy coin from the purse her mother let her carry for the event (Nyota felt very adult when she wore one of her mother's purses, even if it was only filled with fake money and lip gloss).
Every old fountain on Earth was filled with ancient coins. It was common knowledge that this had been a human superstition hundreds of years ago—that tossing a coin into a fountain granted wishes and brought good luck. This fountain was a new construction, and the stone under the water's surface gleamed white in the garden lights.
Nyota clutched the coin to her lips and whispered, "I want to play ka'athyra one day," even though she knew she would be hard-pressed to find a teacher anywhere on this planet. She tossed the coin in and it hit the surface with a high-pitched plunk.
"Why did you do that?"
Nyota spun around to see the ambassador's son, sitting on a bench by the other side of the fountain, his ka'athyra still clutched in her hand.
"To make a wish."
"I do not see how throwing a piece of metal into this otherwise clean fountain could assist you in that."
Nyota didn't argue. She had read enough about Vulcans to know that wishing was not their style. She shook her head and sat next to him. "Forget it."
"I cannot. I have perfect memory."
Nyota giggled, and the boy tilted his head in confusion. She pointed to the instrument cradled in his lap. "Why are you holding that?"
"My father's is on display for the guests. It is an ancient instrument. Mine is only for practice. I did not want it to be compared beside his, as the university requested, because it is inferior."
"Why didn't you just leave it backstage?"
"Because it is my responsibility."
Nyota was amused by this boy who insisted on speaking like an adult, while maintaining the stubbornness of a child. She swung her legs back and forth and stared at his instrument. The boy seemed to sense her desire to touch it, and held it closer to his chest.
"Play something for me?" she asked at last, when it became clear he would not offer it to her.
The boy looked around at the couple whispering together under a floral tree, the group of human women chatting on the other side of the fountain, and the brightly lit crowd whose shadows shifted on the garden patio. "This is not an appropriate setting."
Nyota pouted. "Please?"
"It would be disruptive."
"Then let's go!" she stood and took a few steps backwards, towards the brightly lit path that lead deeper into the garden.
The boy hesitated. "We should remain where our parents can locate us."
"Come on, just for a little bit." Nyota pleaded, resisting the urge to reach out and grab his hand. "They won't even know we're gone."
The boy cast another long look at the reception room. She could tell, even from that blank expression, that he had no desire to go back inside. He stood.
They worked their way through the path, winding through the garden towards the building behind it. They emerged to greet the night sky before the darkened entrance to the conservatory. Nyota raced in front of the boy and up several stairs, turning to face him. "Okay! It's time for a private performance by the one and only, son of Sarek!" She declared to the sky, stretching out her arms.
The boy continued to hold the harp awkwardly, blinking at her. "What do you wish to hear?"
"Something I can sing to." Nyota saw that this may be the only opportunity she would ever get to accompany a ka'athyra in person rather than over a recording in her bedroom, and was not one to pass off any opportunity.
He tilted his head. "There are many songs that have vocal accompaniment. Perhaps you could specify an era or style?"
"Make something up."
"Pardon?"
"Improvise," she waved a hand impatiently. "And I'll make up some words."
The boy looked down at the stringed instrument in confusion. "I was not taught to improvise."
Nyota's smile faltered and she dropped her arms, which were still held out on either side of her in a ridiculous display of anticipation. "Oh," she wasn't entirely sure if Vulcans were capable of something so emotionally driven as musical improvisation. It was not something covered in any textbooks she had read. "Well it's not too hard. Just play the first tune that comes to mind—whatever you feel like!" She realized quickly that she said the world 'feel' and bit her lip.
When the boy continued to stare, she said, "Like this," and began to hum a tune—some combination of familiar notes and progressions from Swahili lullabies and church hymnals. She closed her eyes as she hummed, clasping her fingers behind her back and swaying slightly.
She heard the trilling melody of the ka'athyra and a smile quickly stretched across her lips. She began to weave in snatches of words—whatever she could think of in the moment. She and her sister would often play this game while they walked to school, singing out observations they came across along the road.
The night is hot and I think it will rain soon
My hair is caught in this red flower comb
I'm with a quiet boy with two pointed ears
And hands that make a song only I can… hear!
She was very proud of herself for making that last line rhyme. Her song faltered into laughter and the boy stopped playing.
"What amuses you?" he asked, lowering his instrument.
"I'm just happy! That song was so good."
The boy stared dubiously at her, looking for a moment like he might disagree. He seemed to think better of it because he squared his shoulders and said, "We should return."
Nyota rolled her eyes, "Okay fine."
"Your voice makes a pleasant sound," he said as they made their way back through the path.
"Not as nice as your playing."
"I have much to learn."
"I think you'll be better than him one day."
"Explain?"
"Your dad."
She was met with the same doubtful look he had given her earlier. She tried hard not to laugh. She had never seen a Vulcan make so many funny faces. Maybe they only got serious when they grew up.
"Nyota!" She heard her mother's sharp, chiding voice as soon as they reached the patio. She was standing at the doorway with a woman dressed in Vulcan robes and a veil. Through the sheer fabric she glimpsed dark eyes and painted lips. "We've been looking everywhere for you two!"
The boy gave Nyota a glance that communicated a very strong nonverbal "I-told-you-so." She crossed her eyes at him and he looked a bit startled by the gesture. She smirked.
He approached the woman, who reached for his hand. "I apologize, Mother."
"Stay by my side for the remainder of the night." The woman's voice remained calm, but Nyota could tell she was upset by how tightly she grasped the boy's hand. She felt a bit guilty for getting him in trouble.
"I think its time we head back," M'Umbha also took her daughter's hand. Nyota reluctantly allowed it, though normally she would have snatched it away and insisted that she was too old for handholding. "It was a pleasure to meet you, My Lady." She bowed her head slightly at the boy's mother.
"The pleasure was mine," she returned the bow.
They parted ways, Nyota tentatively raising her hand in the Vulcan salute she'd learned in school. The boy tilted his head with mild curiosity, but could not return the salute, one hand holding his instrument, the other clasped in his mother's.
Nyota received a very long lecture all the way to the ice cream parlor for her promised dessert treat, but did not listen to a single word of it. She spent the rest of the night humming the song she had made up, remembering the sound of the ka'athyra strumming under the open night sky.
By the time Nyota enters Starfleet Academy, the evening has faded into snatches of a pleasant childhood memory, and one verse of a silly made-up song that she sang to herself often as she grew up. Vulcans, however, are blessed with perfect memory. The young half-Vulcan, holding the ka'athyra he would outgrow in a few years, does not forget things so easily.
The Only Ka'athyra Player on This Side of the Quadrant
Nyota sticks her hand into the air for what feels like the millionth time. She watches as her instructor's eyes once again pass over her. He points to a cadet three rows back. She drops her hand and tries to stave off the glare she knows is working its way onto her face.
For weeks, she's been trying to get the attention of her Advanced Phonology instructor who seems to be insistently avoiding her advances. Phonology is possibly Nyota's favorite subject (though Vulcan Literature is a very close second), and it frustrates her to no end that this is the one instructor whose favor she just can't seem to earn, no matter how hard she tries.
She knows the material front to back, raises her hand for every question. The Lieutenant Commander, however, only calls on her as a last resort, when there's absolutely nobody else in class who knows the answer. Then, reluctantly, he nods at her and says, "Cadet Uhura," in a voice that sounds, even for a Vulcan, flat and unenthused.
She's tried a number of strategies to get him to warm up to her. On the first day, she confidently passed the lectern and said, in neatly enunciated Vuhlkansu, "Good morning, honored teacher." He gave her a long, silent look that made her wonder whether she had pronounced something horribly wrong, before nodding stiffly with a brief, "Cadet," in standard.
Undeterred by the humiliation of that moment, she tried to visit his office hours, arriving with long lists of topics for discussion, all of which he answered as briefly as possible. On the third such occasion, he folded his hands on his desktop, trained his dark, long-lashed eyes on Nyota and asked, "When you are so clearly proficient in this material, why do you continue to attend my office hours, which are intended for students who have questions about concepts they do not understand?"
Nyota had opened and closed her mouth several times before squaring her shoulders and saying, "The topic of this course interests me, both academically and professionally. I'd like to be a communications officer on a starship in the future, specializing in xenolinguistics and subspace communications, and therefore wish to deepen my understanding of the subject."
He stared at her with that same expression he had given her on the first day—his features still, but his eyes clearly calculating something or the other. "Very well. From now on, I will send you supplementary readings in addition to the regular course material. Will that be sufficient?"
Nyota had the distinct feeling that he was trying to get rid of her. Her jaw tightened, but she kept her tone calm. "For now."
The class ends and Nyota tries, with difficulty, to maintain her composure as she shoves her PADD into her bag and stalks out. Her eyes meet the instructor's as she passes the lectern. She can tell that he's picked up on her displeasure, but she's irked enough to let a little defiance show. She flicks her gaze away and disappears into the hallway.
Since she was a child, Nyota Uhura has been determined to the point of stubbornness. She has a streak of rebelliousness that pushes her to try things just because someone's told her she can't—just to prove them wrong. She concludes, even in this state of quiet rage, that she will get through to Lieutenant Commander Spock one way or another, even if she hates every minute of it.
When she walks into the large practice room in the basement of the music building, Sonia is upon her before she can reach the risers.
"You look like you just got out of Phonology," she observes with raised eyebrows. She presses her pointer finger in between Nyota's eyebrows. "That's the Lieutenant-Commander-Spock-still-isn't-obsessed-with-me wrinkle."
Nyota slaps her hand away and gives her friend an exasperated smile. "I don't want him to be obsessed with me."
"You want all of your teachers to be obsessed with you. And to be fair, most of them are." Sonia is a science-track cadet Nyota met the day she auditioned for the Starfleet Academy Chorale Ensemble. Matching each other in dry wit and impatience, their friendship developed quickly and naturally. She was the first to inform Nyota, having taken computer science courses with him before, that Lieutenant Commander Spock would not be an easy conquest.
They sit on the bottom riser in the alto section, waiting for the President and Vice President to finish shuffling through their sheet music. That's around when Nyota spots a familiar broad-shouldered figure walking through the door. "No," she lets out a horrified gasp.
"Oh, I know that expression, too." Sonia turns to the doorway and, as she expected, sees Cadet Kirk walking in with his usual unwarranted swagger.
"Hide me." Nyota tries to bury her face into her friend's shoulder but it's too late.
"Cadet Uhura! What a coincidence." She sees Kirk's large feet appear in front of hers.
"Cadet Kirk," she replies curtly, looking up at him with the scorching glare she's been suppressing all afternoon. "Are you lost?"
"Nah, I'm just, uh…" he surveys the handful of girls populating the alto and soprano end of the risers, some of whom are now blushing and batting their eyelashes in a way that truly repulses Nyota. "Exploring some extracurricular activities."
"You know that you have to audition for this ensemble, right?" When Kirk doesn't respond, instead raising his eyebrows at a particularly lithe-looking Andorian cadet in the third row, she snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Hey."
"Oh, yeah, but Angie said I could sit in for a few practices… just to see if I'm into it, you know? Plus, I can sing a little." he looks up at the Vice President and tosses her a wink, to which she blushes and wiggles her fingers. Nyota moans and covers her face with her hands.
As Kirk takes his place amongst the tenors, Nyota grasps Sonia's arm and hisses, "Is nothing sacred?"
Sonia doesn't even try to suppress her giggles.
Nyota spends all of choir practice trying to ignore Kirk's slightly off-key voice, and is practically livid by the end of practice. "Cheer up," Sonia nudges her as they leave their sheet music up at the front of the room. "Kirk won't last more than a few practices; he's been doing these rounds to meet girls in nearly every club on campus."
Nyota knows this, but she still doesn't like it. She has to admit, he has a way of making himself known. Even without his famous father, by the end of their second year, not a single person on campus will be able to honestly say they don't know Cadet Jim Kirk some way or another. She rolls her eyes. Command cadets…
Nyota eats a quick meal and heads back towards her quarters with a determination to redeem the day by rehearsing for the solo audition she's been preparing. She knows she has a good chance, but she also knows that Sonia is just a little bit better. Even when she's the slightly off or fumbles with lyrics, Sonia's voice has a thick sweetness that Nyota's just can't achieve.
The message screen on her door flashes the letters Nyota wants to see least. Meditating: Do not disturb. "Meditating" is Gaila's thinly veiled euphemism for "having rowdy sex at all hours". Everyone in their hallway knows it, and Nyota can just faintly hear the familiar pitch of Gaila's orgasm which she has grown accustomed to hearing through walls, doorways, and often to her horror, waking her up in the middle of the night just several feet away.
Not that Nyota isn't a perfectly sex-positive, modern woman—it just gets a little inconvenient, having such a hypersexual roommate.
"Gaila, you owe me!" She shouts through the door.
"I'll make it up to you!" Gaila moans in return. She won't.
Nyota walks swiftly back towards the music building. Making her way through the corridor between the individual practice rooms, she is confronted with a cacophony of music drifting through the one-way sound isolated rooms. A punk band is playing a raucous number in the first large room, a flautist titters in the next one, another room hums with the orchestral cries of some alien string quartet she can't identify. A piano practices a choppy rendition of Rachmaninoff and the trembling vibrato of an opera singer carries above it all.
It is a miracle she catches it, faint but unmistakable underneath the myriad noise: the melodic trill of a Vulcan lute. Nyota stands stock still, ears trained on the sound. She follows it through the corridor. It has been a few weeks since she's listened to a ka'athyra recording, and over a decade since she heard one playing live. Even then, her heartbeat quickens and she becomes once again the small child wishing on a fake coin with all her might.
She trails it to the second to last practice room in the hall. She peeks into the window hesitantly. She sees the arching slope of the lute's polished wood, tight strings trembling underneath the pale fingers of its player. Her eyes flicker up to his face. She feels her cheeks flush with mortification, frustration. She should have expected this—he is the only Vulcan currently serving in Starfleet. Part of her chose to believe it might be a non-Vulcan enthusiast, or a visiting diplomat or Vulcan Science Academy student—anyone but the stiff, expressionless Lieutenant Commander who provides a constant source of irritation in her life.
She sighs and considers turning away to find an empty practice room for herself, but finds herself unable to move. She can't help but linger on the peaceful expression he wears, so different from the steely look he turns towards a classroom. His hands move in beautiful, graceful strokes, his fingers arching and curling over the strings. His gaze unfixes itself from the wall, and as though pulled by her eyes, turns to the window. His fingers become still and the sound cuts abruptly.
The first thing Nyota thinks is, This is absolutely confirmed for the worst day ever.
The second thing is a panicked calculation of excuses and escape routes. She hopes he will ignore her and continue playing, but he is still looking at her and she is still watching him and Oh God, now he's putting his instrument down and getting up and walking towards the door.
When he opens it, she unconsciously takes two steps back. He watches her retreat and his mouth twitches with momentary hesitation before he says, as calmly as ever, "Can I help you, Cadet Uhura?"
"S-sorry," she looks down at his polished shoes. "I just… I was coming to use the practice rooms when I heard it… your ka'athyra, that is."
The Lieutenant Commander's gaze wanders the hallway. "You heard it?" he says, his tone betraying a slight hint of surprise. The lead guitarist of the punk band is now in the midst of a guitar solo that clashes horribly with the last swells of the opera singer's aria.
Nyota clasps her hands behind her back and hazards a glance up. "Yeah…"
A long pause passes before he subtly lifts his eyebrows and says, "Impressive. I now understand your affinity for phonology."
She does somewhere between a shrug and a nod before mumbling, "Sorry to interrupt."
"It is of no consequence."
They hover awkwardly at the door for a drawn out moment, before Nyota says, "I, uh, should grab a practice room before they all fill up."
Lieutenant Commander Spock nods. "Good evening, Cadet."
Just as he's stepped into the practice room, before she can think too much of it, Nyota blurts out, "You play beautifully, Lieutenant Commander."
He stops, turns his head just slightly towards her, but seems to think better of it and does not meet her gaze. "Thank you, Cadet," he says quietly, before closing the door behind him.
Nyota practices her audition song, but her mind swims with the melody of his ka'athyra. She can sense it on the other side of the wall, despite the fact that no sound breaks through the insulation.
The next day, she explains the encounter at a mess hall table with Sonia and Jackson, a first year tenor they'd befriended when he joined the choir at the beginning of that semester.
"Well, that's inconvenient." Jackson points his grilled cheese at her. "I was there for your drunk tirade about how much you want to play that… well, however you pronounce it."
Nyota blushes and crosses her arms. "God, was everyone there for that?"
"Nearly the whole choir, yes," Sonia supplies, blowing at a spoonful of tomato soup.
Nyota wonders at how calmly her two friends are eating their lunch. "This is serious," she says, pushing away her barely touched soup. "He might be the only ka'athyra player on this side of the quadrant. Who knows when I'll get another chance like this!" her eyes dart between their faces urgently.
"If it means that much to you, why don't you just ask if he'll teach you?" Jackson asks, as if it were the most natural solution.
"Because…" Nyota recoils. "I can barely get him to actively engage me in class, let alone give me…" she squeezed her eyes shut, "… private lessons." The thought makes her shudder a bit, imagining being shut alone in a room with him for god knows how long. She imagines him giving her the minimum possible instruction, and then pointedly ignoring her questions.
"Maybe this is your chance." Sonia shoots her a playful smirk. "Maybe this is the way to your Lieutenant Commander's heart."
Nyota grimaces. "I really wish you wouldn't say it like that, I'll lose my appetite." She picks at the crust on her grilled cheese and sighs. "I'll think about it."
She does. She thinks about it repeatedly throughout the day. Thankfully she doesn't have Advanced Phonology that day, or else she might have thought about it for the entire 90-minute class. Finally, on her way back to the second year cadets' quarters, she makes a sharp turn in an entirely different direction. Specifically, the direction of the Science Center, one of the largest buildings on Starfleet Academy campus. Also, the building with Lieutenant Commander Spock's office.
She's in his office and standing in front of his desk before she can overthink how terrible of an idea this is. As he looks up, she inhales. Nyota Uhura will not back down from a challenge, not even the expressionless commander who is staring at her with those very dark, very unreadable eyes.
"Cadet Uhura?"
"Please," she takes a breath. "Honored teacher. If you can find time in your schedule, would you be willing to instruct me in ka'athyra? I've always wanted to learn, very much." She bites her lip at the end of her speech. She sounds way more like she's begging than she intended to. She lifts her chin a little bit, as if that will redeem her. She doesn't like the idea of appearing vulnerable in front of Lieutenant Commander Spock.
He blinks at her several times and then puts down his stylus. "I cannot. Humans do not have the sensitivity to master the ka'athyra."
"I have perfect pitch," she insists, putting her hands on the edge of his desk.
"Yes, but—"
"I don't have to master it, necessarily. I'd just like to become as proficient as possible."
Spock considers this, though his expression looks a bit patronizing. She supposes that Vulcans might not understand the purpose of trying to learn something, if not to master it. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest and gazing out into empty space with the same contemplative expression. "You have demonstrated exceptional aural sensitivity in class. You were able to pick out my ka'athyra through all of the various sounds outside of the practice rooms."
Nyota lets herself feel a little hopeful.
At last he looks up at her once more. "I will think about it, and inform you when I have reached a decision."
This is more than she could hope for. She's not sure whether to give him a Starfleet salute or a Vulcan one and does a mishmash of the two, before cracking a wide smile—possibly the first smile she's ever directed at him. "I really appreciate it, Lieutenant Commander. Thank you."
She leaves the building buzzing with something, though she's not sure if it's anticipation, dread, or some odd combination of the two. He said maybe, she reminds herself. A smile creeps onto her face in spite of this. Maybe is better than no, though.
The sun sets as she crosses campus. Only a few passing cadets hears her sing the silly four-line song she still hasn't managed forget, even after so many years.
