Chapter One
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As soon as he sees the box, Spock knows what it means.
"For you, Commander," the ensign says, holding out a standard Starfleet shipping parcel barely larger than his palm. The ensign salutes smartly before exiting the bridge but Spock pays no attention.
He's not the only one on the bridge to have a delivery. Almost the minute the Enterprise docked at Starbase Yorktown, ten months of delayed mail was brought aboard. Most of the crew are picking up their packages at the ship's sorting office next to the main transporter, but the chief supply officer has dispatched his staff to hand deliver mail to the crew on alpha shift, a concession to the eagerness for physical contact with home.
Out of reflex, Spock looks over at Nyota's comm station, but for the past month she's requested the delta shift instead.
At his navigation station, Sulu opens a flimplast envelope and removes a small, flat package.
"Finally!" he says, grinning. "I ordered these seeds last spring."
Chekov, too, holds an envelope, this one smooth and white and old-fashioned, a vestige of a time gone by when letters were routinely written on cotton or wooden fiber paper and physically transported across wide distances from writer to reader. From the look on his face, the young helmsman is distraught about the contents. Unwelcome news, undoubtedly.
As most news is.
Atypical for Spock to have such a morbid thought. More evidence that his control is slipping. Despite increasing his meditation time, for the past few weeks Spock has been—has felt—unsettled.
"We all feel it," Dr. McCoy said when Spock stopped by sickbay last week with a rare headache that persisted despite his best efforts at pain suppression. "By the time we get to Yorktown, we will have been on the road 960 days straight."
"966," Spock said, "though on the road is an inaccurate characterization."
McCoy pursed his lips and pressed a hypospray to Spock's neck. "On the road, out at sea, whatever you want to call it, we all need a break."
Spock sets the unopened shipping parcel to the side and turns his attention back to the data scrolling by on his screen. Requests for extended leave from two crew members, a manifest of weapons materiel, the results of a scheduled scan of the water recycler…welcome distractions as he waits for his replacement at the end of his shift.
The doctor's reassurance notwithstanding, Spock is certain that what he is feeling is more than the normal exhaustion and tension the rest of the crew exhibits. Not a premonition but something close, like watching a storm gathering on the horizon and knowing with absolute certainty that he can't outrun it.
"What is that?"
Nyota greets him with the question as soon as he enters their quarters.
Recognizing his biometric signature, the room sensor turns up the heat and dims the light a quarter measure. Spock crosses the sitting area and places the box on the desk.
"From Selek," he says simply. Behind him he hears Nyota let out a sigh.
"Oh," she says, drawing close, her fingers drifting to his. "I'm sorry."
He's been expecting the package, of course. The last transmission from New Vulcan was 23 days ago, a hazy recorded vid of Selek—the name his counterpart from another universe has taken—telling him to expect it. It was also Selek's farewell.
"The healers have assured me," Selek said on the screen, his voice wavering with discernible emotion, "that there is no further treatment. Do not grieve, Spock. I have been more fortunate than most. My friendships and work have given me meaning in ways I could never have anticipated in my early years. My hope for you is that you also live a long and prosperous and happy life."
Selek's slight emphasis on the word happy startled Spock. From a Vulcan, such a comment was…unconventional. Spock blinked and replayed that part of the vid again.
"…a long and prosperous and happy life. And now I must ask your indulgence as I tell you something I have never told anyone before. Upon my death, you will receive the only thing of value I own. It belonged to my mother and I have carried it with me since her death years ago. At one time I was ashamed to admit such sentimentality and attachment to a material object, but no more. It has served as a talisman for me, and perhaps it will mean something to you as well."
Selek's craggy face peered from the vid and his hand lifted into the ta'al.
Then the vid went black.
When Nyota watched it, she was indignant.
"He's not that old! Why can't they find a cure!"
Spock was as baffled as she was. Selek had spoken of his illness before but in a circumspect way, implying that it was nothing serious. Certainly some Vulcans were dying much younger than expected, victims of what was being called kahl-pol lak-tra, or heart sadness.
"Vulcan PTSD," McCoy quipped once when Spock asked him what he knew about the research. "They just can't cope with what has happened."
At the time Spock had been irritated at McCoy's easy conflation of Vulcan and human response to trauma. For the Vulcans who lost family and clans in the genocide, part of themselves were lost, too—not just metaphorically, the way humans talked about heartbreak, but actual loss of joined self. The uptick in unexplained and unexpected deaths among the survivors was not a surprise. What was a surprise was that so many of them were doing as well as they were.
His father, for instance, who felt the loss of his wife keenly but was driven by the demands of rebuilding the colony on New Vulcan.
Selek had been busy there, too, and until recently, healthy. Or so Spock assumed. The older man didn't avoid him, exactly, but the few times that they were together, Spock had the sense that Selek weighed his words and censored his responses, careful not to unduly influence him. It was a thoughtful gesture, and one that made Spock feel—if not sad, then wistful.
"Are you going to open it?" Nyota unhooks their fingers and Spock slides open the delivery parcel. Inside is another box: small, hinged, and made from a lustrous black stone. Spock rubs his thumb across the Vulcan sigil carved on the top and it springs open.
"A necklace," Nyota says. "It's beautiful."
Spock lifts the silver chain from the box and holds up a light blue pendant. Turquoise? The light catches the surface and Spock can make out bright striations that appear to flicker. Not turquoise, then, nor any Earth rock.
"He said it belonged to his mother?"
Spock nods and slips the necklace back into the small black box. He cups his hand around it and is surprised at the heft and warmth of it. Remarkable—fascinating—that Selek still has it.
Had it.
Without consciously deciding to, he slides the box into his pocket. When he looks up, Nyota is watching him.
"Are we still meeting your father for a meal?"
An odd thing to ask. The meal with Sarek has been planned since they knew for certain their arrival date. Sarek arranged his own travel plans to put him here at the Yorktown on a routine trip from New Vulcan back to Earth. Everything was settled weeks ago, before Spock and Nyota decided that working separate shifts might help dissipate some of the friction between them. Too much time spent together, she said. Too little time spent apart, he thought.
Perhaps Selek's impending death had weighed on him more than he was aware. Or perhaps—and this was something he had hardly allowed himself to consider—he and Selek moved through the universe in tandem, their katras entwined like two vibrating strings on a ka'athyra.
"If you do not wish to attend, you do not have to." His tone is neutral but he sees Nyota's expression darken. She's taken offense though he intended none.
"I told Ensign Sadu I'd relieve her early," she says, moving toward the door. It's a transparent lie and for a moment Spock considers calling her on it.
Honesty isn't always the best policy, he remembers his mother saying more than once. At the time he had been befuddled, but now her words give him pause. He decides to tell a different truth instead.
"I am glad we will be together this evening," he says before she can exit. Turning to glance at him, her expression softens.
"Me, too," she says.
And then she's gone. Spock stands in the middle of the room with the same sense of dread he'd felt earlier.
He puts his hand into his pocket and curls his fingers around the stone box, searching for an essence of Selek there. Nothing but rock—and the echo of his own heartbeat in his fingertips.
Notes: It's probably a fool's errand to write a fanfiction based on trailers and one clip from an upcoming movie, but when the Muse calls, I have to obey.
This is the first chapter of a three-chapter backstory about the necklace that Uhura is wearing in the recently released clip for "Star Trek Beyond." In that clip she says that the necklace belonged to Spock's mother. Yes, I know I have it belonging to the Amanda of TOS, but chapter two sheds more light on that seeming discrepancy. Stay tuned!
As always, a shout out that you are reading keeps me focused! I appreciate hearing from you…and I'm stoked that the new movie is finally within sight!