The child lay on the floor, curled into a tight ball of misery. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, trying to block out the strangled coughing just beyond the wall. "Mama," she said under her breath, accenting the second syllable. It was the only trace of French influence in her flat colonial speech.

French was the language of Mama's homeland—there was no end to the many languages Mama could speak. Now, there was no end to the coughing. With all her might Cristabeth wished Mama better and tried to summon happy thoughts, but a sickening dread overwhelmed her. She was shaking inside.

"Crista?"

Cristabeth untangled her thin legs. "Coming, Mama!" She crept down the hallway and peered through the doorframe into the dimly lit room. On her bed Mama stretched out an emaciated arm. "Crista," she gasped, "over here."

Stiff with fear, Cristabeth edged closer. She stopped at the bedside, biting her fist while Mama struggled for air. "Crista…it is time. Help me…dress."

"But I don't think I want to," whined the child. Sudden tears splashed down her pallid face. "Please, Mama…"

Mama gripped her with bony fingers as cold as death, and the ravaged voice strengthened from urgency. "Come now, Crista. It will be…fun…seeing a starship. Get my clothes…my medicine."

Silently crying, Cristabeth brought a loose-fitting wrap and an inhaler to help Mama breathe. Taking Mama's arm, she guided her slowly from the house, to the cab waiting at the curb. It was a long time since Mama had ventured outside, but to Cristabeth the occasion held no joy. Wiping at her tears, she knew she would never forget this day. She would never again see blue skies and spring sunshine without remembering this fateful, wrenching trip.

"I don't like him," she sobbed.

Mama sighed. "You have never…met him. You might not…meet him at all. He is…a busy man."

They arrived at the spaceport terminal, a weeping child and a shuffling old woman. Mama sank into a chair and sent Cristabeth to find the Port Authority. She had made it this far—what little strength remained must be saved for the coming ordeal.

ooooo

Standing in Captain Spock's quarters, Commander Hikaru Sulu regarded his superior with exasperation. Despite the many years they had served together, there were times when he simply did not understand the solemn Vulcan. And this past year as Spock's executive officer had been particularly trying. Sulu was eager for a ship of his own and the Enterprise might well have been that ship, had Spock not returned from Vulcan to resume his career in Starfleet. Even so, their working relationship had been steadily improving until this Ildaran mission. Spock had not been himself since their arrival at the planet. Now, though Spock was seated, he had not offered Sulu a chair. He did not even seem to be listening.

"Captain…" Sulu began again.

Spock's dark eyes found him over a triangle of well-groomed fingertips. It was the first indication that Spock had heard his second-in-command. "Mister Sulu, if I am not concerned about diplomatic protocol, I see no reason why you should fret. The facilitation of this trade conference is my responsibility, not yours."

"But that's just the point! The Ildaran proceedings are your responsibility." Stomach churning, Sulu wondered if he had gone too far in venting his frustration. They were a team, but only in the strictest military sense. Their relationship had never touched on a level that permitted such liberties, much to his regret. Not that he expected the sort of friendship Spock shared with Admiral Kirk. No. Just a slight unbending, an occasional acknowledgement that beneath the Starfleet insignia, they were men. Once—just once—Spock had asked about Sulu's family. But did he really care? Who could tell? The Vulcan never let loose a personal thought from that hyper-efficient circuit board of a brain. He had never even called Sulu by his first name.

"Mister Sulu." Spock's voice was taut. "Have I overestimated your capabilities? If you cannot manage such a simple assignment, then say so."

Sulu barely held onto his temper. There was no swaying Spock once that obstinate Vulcan mind was set. "Sir, that's not what I meant. You know Ildarani is strategically important for both trade and military defense in this sector—a colony world come of age. To offend Governor Jordan is to risk alienating a valuable outpost of the Federation." Though his words had no visible effect, he gamely continued. "Jordan expects you at the Palace Ball. True, it's only a dance, but he's faithfully attended every trade session aboard ship. He's apt to interpret your absence as a deliberate snub."

Spock rose up, a formidable tower of maroon and gold braid. "Mister Sulu. Do you presume to lecture me like a cadet?"

"…S-sir," Sulu found himself stammering, "absolutely not. It's only my…my duty to present every aspect of the situation."

Spock's slanted eyebrow crept dangerously high. "And I shall give the situation all the care it is due. Meanwhile, you will prepare your dress uniform."

Sulu swallowed a useless retort. In the battle of wills he never won. He sometimes wondered why he even tried anymore, except that it was his duty to supply Spock with all the information needed for command decisions. And Sulu valued duty. Lately it was all that kept him bound to the insular Vulcan.

ooooo

As the door snapped shut at his first officer's heels, Spock shivered in a draft from the corridor. It no longer mattered whether or not he chose to perceive the cold. The cold was there, miserable and unrelenting, and his body protested its discomfort. If he ignored his body's protest, he was likely to fall ill. Simple desert-bred logic guided him to the cabin environment control and he raised the temperature by twenty degrees. That at least would ease his chronic chill. Now if only memories could be vanquished with the touch of a keypad…

Twelve years. How short a time it seemed—and yet, how very long. A barren eternity spent striving for inner peace...countless days mired in struggle…desolate, wakeful nights. His efforts had culminated with three years on Vulcan, where he undertook the rigorous Kolinahir discipline. And still he could not free himself completely—he had accomplished nothing. He had only to set course to this obscure planet and it was as if the years had never passed—as if tonight's ball were another, and Adrianna waited for him below—warm, vibrant, alive.

But, of course, Adrianna was dead. And she had never been more than a cruel illusion.

Spock tugged his uniform jacket into flawless lines, resolutely turning his mind from who might be very much alive on modern day Ildarani. That possibility did not concern him. It must not concern him. Over the years he had even denied himself access to the Ildaran census records.

A sudden door chime broke into his thoughts. "Come," he called out, relieved. Just now he would welcome any distraction, but the womanly presence entering his cabin took him by surprise. Nyota Uhura had never visited him here.

She approached somewhat hesitantly, her dark face full of worry. "Captain, I need to talk to you…"

Spock's long-term associates would have been surprised at how sensitive he had grown to their changeable moods. Whatever was bothering his communications officer did not involve the usual starship business. By some rare stirring of intuition, he braced for troubling news. "Yes, Commander. What is it?" Uhura scrutinized him with an intensity that increased Spock's unease. "Commander?" he prompted, tilting his head quizzically.

"Captain…weren't you part of a scientific research team on Ildarani some ten or eleven years ago?"

The question was more than troubling. Only ingrained Vulcan training allowed Spock to reply in his usual calm, precise manner. "Twelve years, one month, and three days."

Uhura nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. I remember. You returned to the Enterprise with an ailing young woman and her French mother. Captain Kirk gave them passage to Starfleet Medical Center."

Spock took in a slow, deep breath that steadied him. "You have an excellent memory. It would be pleasant to reminisce further, but unfortunately I am due on—" He started for the door, but Uhura jumped into his path, so like the impulsive Adrianna that he momentarily looked away.

She gave his arm a most unmilitary squeeze. "Captain. I've just arrived from the landing port. There's a sick woman demanding to beam up and meet you, but of course the Port Authority wants you to clear it. They've determined that she's not contagious. And sir…she sounds French. I'm almost certain she's the older colonist you brought aboard ship that time."

There was no disguising his reaction. Twelve years of bitter uncertainty filled Spock's eyes as he asked, "She is…alone?"

Uhura shook her head. Watching him closely she said, "A child is with her. A girl, rather small for her age. Eleven. The woman wanted me to tell you that." She paused. "Should I…bring them aboard?"

Spock tried to think. If in truth this woman was Justrelle Lemoine, she bore him a personal hatred so intense that there would likely be only one reason for her visit. But why bring the child along? Reaching a decision, he said, "Escort them to the deck three briefing room. I'll be waiting there."

ooooo

Cristabeth hung her head as a dark-skinned lady in uniform led her and Mama to the transporter station. So they were really going aboard the starship, among people like this woman named Uhura. And him.

Uhura smiled as she gently centered Cristabeth under the locus. "Don't be afraid, honey. You'll be on the Enterprise before you know it."

Despite the woman's kindness, Cristabeth remained silently terrified. She closed her eyes tight and wished she could clutch Mama's hand as the shimmering beam caught hold. When next she looked, it was over. The subtle vibration beneath her feet meant she was aboard the starship, a world of stark surfaces and strange, frightening faces. A woman stepped from behind an equipment console, staring at Cristabeth in a way that made her self-conscious. She quickly rearranged her long, dark hair to cover her misshapen ears.

Uhura introduced the curious crewmember. "This is Janice Rand, honey. She makes sure everyone beams to and from the ship safely. It's a very important job."

After leaving the transporter room, they walked down a long hallway and through sliding doors, into a small waiting area. By now Mama was winded and coughing.

"Rest a minute," urged Uhura.

"No," Mama said, "there is no time for that." She pointed to the inner door. "He is in there?"

"Yes, go ahead." Then Uhura added, "Should I…keep the child here with me?"

"Please," answered Mama, and Cristabeth gladly sank into a chair.

ooooo

Captain Spock received his guest with studied formality, rising from his seat at the conference table as though greeting yet another Ildaran bureaucrat. "Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Madam Lamoine."

In truth, Spock found the change in her shocking. Once, Justrelle Lamoine had been a fine-looking woman, almost regal in her tall, arrogant bearing. Sickness had etched her face with pain, leaving her gray and stooped far beyond her years. The rasp of her labored breathing filled the room. He waited, silent and unmoving, as she succumbed to a spasm of coughing. It was a long, uncomfortable moment before she could speak.

"So," she declared in the acidic tone he remembered so well, "you have gotten… your command. A starship capitaine." Eyeing his uniform with distaste, she noted, "Grief did not…hold you back any, eh? Mais, non. You always did take…exactly what you wanted…regardless."

Spock knew the circumstance of his promotion was not the issue here. Justrelle still had not forgiven him for her daughter's death. Neither time nor poor health had tempered her lust for vengeance. At their last meeting she had almost killed him. Mindful of her violent nature, he felt for the phaser's outline beneath his jacket.

Justrelle patted her purse and laughed at him. "No…my dear brave Spock…unlike you…I have no concealed weapon. I am not going…to hurt you, as much pleasure…as that might bring me. Murder would…defeat my purpose completely."

"And what," Spock asked, "is your purpose?"

Justrelle took a seat and looked at him through narrowed eyes. "You have no child. That is what…you once said to me. You cast off…your own flesh and blood…like a piece of rubbish. You did not even try…to win custody."

Spock gripped a chair back until his fingers whitened. How dare she accuse him? Years ago she had made it quite clear. The child was the daughter of a Sy-jeera, a young man-eater like her mother, Adrianna. Only a fool would burn himself twice in the same flame. And Justrelle had wanted the baby, demanded her, and warned against ever trying to assert his parental rights. Even so, he had suffered ample regrets about leaving a child—any child—to this vindictive woman.

"Is…she well?" He would ask that much.

"If by that you mean…is she healthy? The answer is yes. But…she can hardly be happy…watching the only mama she has ever known…die by inches."

The single statement yielded considerable information. The girl was alive and in good health. She had been treated well enough to care about her grandmother—and now Justrelle Lemoine was dying. All cause for some relief, but Spock's memories of this devious woman made him wary. Why had she come aboard?

"I have not…many days left. Soon the child…will be orphaned. Does that mean… anything to you? Have you…ever considered…accepting the responsibility…of your daughter?"

"My…daughter." Another ripple of anger threatened Spock's self-control. He waited until he could trust his voice. "Suddenly she is my daughter? By your own account I was trapped into a relationship with Adrianna and as a result she died from a rare complication of pregnancy. That left only the unborn child—your child to raise as you saw fit. Yes, you made that abundantly clear to me."

Justrelle bent over and began to cough. Though she struggled pathetically for breath, Spock did not soften toward her. Yet simple decency demanded that he say, "Shall I have the ship's doctor examine you?"

She shook her head and drew out an inhaler. The coughing subsided. "There is…nothing more…any physician…can do for me. At this point…I am thinking…only of the child. Why else…would I come to you?" Her voice grew bleak. "I have no friends…willing to take her. Your arrival here…seemed almost an omen. I hope to Dieu…not a bad omen."

Though Spock dismissed the idea of omens as superstitious, his reluctance to undertake this Ildaran mission could have been interpreted as a foreboding of trouble. "Speak plainly," he demanded.

"Very well. I have done… enough checking…to know you come…from a wealthy family. The child will be needing…family. I have…already told her…who you are. If, by some chance…you feel some twinge…of fatherly concern…I will leave her…with you…for a trial period. Say…a week? Whether or not she stays…with you permanently…will be her decision…as well as yours. If she…prefers an orphanage…over your tender care…I would not blame her." She pulled herself from the chair and gazed sourly at Spock. "Well, Vulcan…what then will it be?"

Spock could not have prepared himself for this. The situation was so unexpected, so implausible. His instinctive reaction was to say 'no' and spare himself what was certain to be a painful experience. 'I have no child', he had vowed twelve years ago. Yet, in his mind's eye, he had watched her grow up—a little mirror image of Adrianna. She would be beautiful. She would be intelligent. Would she also be as sly and controlling as her mother? As disagreeable as her grandmother? There was only one way to find out.

Sight unseen he decided, "She may stay the week. I cannot promise anything more."

Justrelle eyed him with suspicion. "Do not get any…treacherous ideas. I have made sure…plenty of others…know the child is here. If you should…run off with her…"

"I am a Vulcan," Spock said, as if that fact guaranteed his good behavior.

Justrelle only snorted. "A cold and cunning sauvage…that is all…you are. Oh…do not worry. I have not…prejudiced her. I have had…trouble enough…raising that child. She has not…been easy to love. When you see her…you will know why. Perhaps…after all…she does belong with you…though you are not…capable…of winning her heart."

Without a backward glance she shuffled from the room, leaving Spock to ponder his old vulnerability to her insults. Her words should not have mattered—but they did. Justrelle's smug prophecy compounded his nervousness as he awaited the first glimpse of Adrianna's child. His child. He scarcely knew how to speak to any child. What would he do with an eleven-year-old stranger—the offspring of a Sy-Jeera?

The door hissed open and Spock turned from vague speculations to hard reality.

She was staring at him. He was staring just as hard, yet he could not stop himself. He could not silence the inner protest, the stubbornly indignant outcry at being cheated. No! Wrong, all wrong! This was not the diminutive copy of Adrianna that had teased through his dreams at night. No rounded limbs here, no golden hair or exquisite features. This knobby-kneed urchin looked undernourished. Overly round Vulcanoid ear tips peeked forlornly from her limp brown hair. Her brows were noticeably arched. Of course, they would be. They belonged on that face. With a pang Spock recognized his own bone structure, feminized by an unkind genetic quirk. No wonder Justrelle found her difficult to love!

Through all this, Spock's expression remained…almost impassive. The girl made so such attempt. Her jaw jutted defiantly. "Mama," she spoke, stressing the second syllable in the French manner. "Mama says you're my father. Is it true? Are you Captain Spock?"

"I am," Spock conceded, realizing that he did not even know her name.

Anger flared from her hazel eyes. "Well, I don't give a darn who you are! I'm going back home!"

As she turned to leave, Spock's tightly controlled voice stopped her. "Your grandmother is very ill. She has placed you in my care for a week."

The news brought furious tears to the eyes so like his own—a singularly distressing sight. Spock did not know what more to say to her. He was having enough trouble managing his own reactions.

All at once she rushed for the door, but finding only Uhura in the anteroom, she stopped in the doorway and turned on Spock. "I don't believe you! Where is she? What have you done with Mama?" She stood trembling like a wild creature, poised to flee or attack.

In the nightmarish moment Uhura acted first, edging inconspicuously to block the corridor exit. "Cristabeth," she said gently, "come here now. Don't be afraid. It's only for a few days. Your mama said."

With a poisonous glance at Spock, Cristabeth fled into Uhura's open arms. Hugging the sympathetic woman, she sobbed, "He's not my father! I hate him!"

Spock tried to look as if he had not heard, but his speech was strained. "The child…shall require some sleeping arrangement…and a companion." He watched his daughter cling desperately to Uhura. He saw the apology in Uhura's eyes, the thinly veiled pity, and he felt worse than a failure. He felt like a monster.

"I can take her to my quarters," Uhura said in a motherly tone. "There's plenty of room and I'd love to have Crista keep me company. I'll make her up some clothes in a fabricator."

Spock could only nod.

ooooo

He knew what a stir the child was creating. Spock caught snatches of the chatter, glimpsed the curious eyes that measured and compared every angle of his face to young Cristabeth's. The resemblance between them was too striking to be vaguely brushed aside. Obviously she was a relative of some sort, but he simply kept silent about her—and could only hope that Uhura and the child herself kept their silence.

At another day's end, Spock was at his desk thinking over the situation when Doctor McCoy burst uninvited into his cabin. Apparently the good doctor had forgotten how to press the door chime. The problem was not with his fingers. They worked well enough to adjust the temperature setting downward as McCoy headed for the small store of liquor Spock kept for privileged guests.

Spock could no longer contain himself when McCoy dropped to one knee and began rummaging through the low cabinet. "Do feel at home, Doctor."

"Thank you, Captain, I will," came the equally dry retort. Selecting a decanter, McCoy poured fine Saurian brandy into a snifter and set it before the pensive Vulcan. "Be daring, Spock, and have a jolt. Hell, if you don't unwind soon, I might have to prescribe a tranquilizer."

"Save your noxious poisons," Spock said, pushing aside the green liquor. He was tempted to dismiss the meddlesome doctor with strong language, yet there was a certain indefinable comfort in McCoy's abrasive presence. As always, Spock found their relationship difficult to classify. Friends or adversaries? Had they not been drawn together by their common friendship with Jim Kirk, they likely would have remained cool acquaintances. But through Kirk a bond of sorts had developed, holding fast even after Jim's appointment to the admiralty. Two strong-minded men, seldom agreeing on anything, yet sharing trust, concern, and a grudging respect for the very differences that annoyed them. And perhaps that was not so remarkable.

"Just how long are you going to brood?" demanded McCoy, perching on the desktop like some hungry raptor.

Spock looked at him. Graying hair, lean and craggy—time had left its indelible stamp on the man. McCoy had aged, but so had Spock, though considerably less due to his Vulcan genes. Yet today Spock felt the weight of his years. In a long-suffering tone he said, "Doctor, you refer to a somber emotional state. Once and for all, as a Vulcan I am not susceptible to the vagaries of your human moods."

"Bullshit!" McCoy leaned forward, fixing Spock with a steely gaze. "I don't know every little thing that happened on this garden spot twelve years ago, but I sure as hell know what followed. Don't forget, I was there. I helped pick up the pieces, I stitched you back together—and it wouldn't take much imagination to figure out who Cristabeth is, even…" he ended in a rush "…even if I hadn't checked her DNA."

Spock rose to his feet in outrage. "Doctor McCoy, you have overstepped the bounds of your medical authority!"

Still seated on the desktop, McCoy gazed up at him, unshaken. "Well," he drawled, "I suppose that's true. Just these damn human emotions cloudin' my judgment. Maybe I shouldn't care, but I keep puttin' myself in your place, and from what I see, it's not such a pleasant place lately. No wonder you hole up in this cabin of yours like some grumpy old hermit. Why, if my daughter Joanna had ever gone around glarin' at me that way…"

Grumpy? The anger drained from Spock. At most, he had been somewhat less than amiable in recent days. He knew the strain was telling. And as for McCoy, he could have deduced Cristabeth's identity by any number of means, perhaps even the wardroom bulletin screen. Spock sank back into his chair, almost relieved to say, "The child detests me. That must be obvious to everyone aboard ship. In her eyes I see her grandmother's hostility…and I do not know how to reach her. It is as if there is a wall between us."

"You sound defeated, and that isn't like you—not like you at all."

Spock lifted the glass of brandy. Keeping his eyes on the green liquor, he began to swirl it. Somewhere inside him a stiff, stubborn door cracked ajar. McCoy had been there twelve years ago to, as he said, 'pick up the pieces'. McCoy had helped him then and maintained a professional silence ever since. Perhaps the bond between them had grown stronger than Spock realized. For once he did not resist the inner door's opening. For once he felt a need to let down his Vulcan barriers and confide in this man who at times saw him with astonishing clarity.

ooooo

In the officers' mess, Cristabeth sat picking glumly at her food.

"You need to eat," urged Uhura. Two days aboard ship, and the child had not yet finished a meal. Uhura shrugged helplessly at Doctor Chapel.

Chapel put down her fork and turned her full attention on the forlorn figure across the table. Uhura had parted Cristabeth's hair in the middle and woven two French braids that met in the back. Now there was no hiding those semi-Vulcanoid ears. Could this truly be Spock's child? Her conviction grew every time she looked at the girl. Those hardy Vulcan genes invariably dominated. Spock himself was living proof. Smiling wistfully she asked, "What's wrong, dear? Don't you like the food?"

"It's weird," pouted Cristabeth. "Not like when Mama cooked…back before she got so sick."

"Well," reasoned Uhura, "you selected the food yourself. Even the meat." She hoped Spock would not disapprove. He had not ordered a Vulcan diet for the child; in fact, he had made no recommendations of any kind. Since that first devastating encounter with Cristabeth, he had mostly kept his distance. Uhura was on her own. Cautiously she said, "Did you know that Captain Spock is a vegetarian?"

Cristabeth gave her plate an angry shove. "I don't care! I don't care anything about him!"

Chapel was dismayed. "Cristabeth. You shouldn't talk that way about your fa—" Barely catching herself, she finished lamely, "—about the captain." Embarrassed, she picked up her tray and left with a mumbled excuse.

Cristabeth folded her arms over her chest and sulked. "My father, she means. Well, I hate his Vulcan guts!"

This time Uhura lost patience. Seizing the child's thin shoulders, she jerked Cristabeth around to face her. "That's enough, young lady! It's high time you learn some respect. Never—I repeat, never say that again. Do you understand?"

Cristabeth nodded without remorse, her eyes smoldering. Uhura felt far from reassured. Loosening her hold, she glanced self-consciously at those few dining officers who might have overheard the child's outburst. Thankfully, the captain and Mister Sulu were absent.

Uhura marched Cristabeth to their deck five cabin and tried a different tactic. She sat the girl down on her improvised bunk and said, "Look at me," but the sullen eyes remained downcast. "Cristabeth, I can forgive your attitude toward your father because you don't know him as we do. However, I can't overlook your conduct. No matter how you feel inside, you need to speak and act respectfully—not only to Captain Spock, but also everyone aboard this ship. Showing courtesy reflects well on your mama. Do you want everyone thinking she's a bad parent?" The girl looked up, and Uhura continued in a gentler, more sympathetic voice. "I know you love her, honey. This separation must be very difficult for both of you. I'm sure your grandmother misses you, and I know she would want you to be on your very best behavior. Remember, she's the one who arranged this visit with your father. Don't you want to make her proud of you?"

Tears welled in Cristabeth's eyes and she said, "I just want to go home..."