In the aftermath of their latest joining, Spock lay in bed while his wife drifted to sleep beside him. All week Lauren had carefully monitored the physiological changes that made him reach for her more frequently than usual. As long as the sexual tension remained at this level, it would pose no serious difficulty, but the memory of that last Time was never far from them. Seven years ago, the pon farr nearly ended their marriage.
A small noise drew his attention. It came again. The faint computer tone from downstairs signaled an incoming message of unusual importance.
Curious, Spock rose quietly in the darkness and put on his robe. The stairs creaked as he went down to investigate. He turned on the small light by the monitor and found a subspace transmission from Vulcan loaded into the message queue. He seemed to sense that it was bad news. Illogical, he told himself. News—either good or bad, cannot be sensed.
Yet he could not entirely shake the feeling of trepidation as he sank into the chair and ordered the message onscreen. An image of his father appeared, as imposing as ever with his ambassadorial robes and graying hair. Sarek's brief phrases delivered the news in his usual concise manner. There had been a death in the family. Solkar was gone.
Spock was staring at the blanked screen when Lauren came downstairs and found him. He replayed the message for her. Standing at his side, she rested a hand on his shoulder and watched.
"Your great-grandfather," she said when it was over.
"Yes." Strange, to be so affected by the passing of a man he had never liked. All through his childhood he had feared and resented the imperious Solkar; as a young man he may have grown to respect him for his professional accomplishments, but never anything beyond that. Never.
Lauren's hand moved, gently stroking his shoulder. "He's the one who beat you."
Spock swallowed against the dryness in his throat, and nodded. The old man had been tall, straight, and incredibly strong compared to an undersized halfling boy. He had radiated an unbending coldness that made the Spock tremble even before Solkar's whip struck him.
"It…was the custom," he said, although they both knew how badly Solkar had abused that custom. On Vulcan, children were rarely subjected to physical discipline, but if the need arose it was usually the paternal grandfather who administered it. Spock's earliest years had passed agreeably under the gentle guidance of his grandfather, Skon. Then Skon had received a diagnosis of plakir-fee—and soon thereafter died by his own hand, tearing Spock's young world asunder. When Solkar stepped into Skon's place, he did everything in his power to undo the "softness" instilled by Skon. Out of shame, Spock hid the bruises from his parents and remained silent.
"You'd think," said Lauren with feeling, "that a musician would have had more sensitivity."
"One would," Spock agreed. As a child he had attended a few of Solkar's concerts with his parents. He remembered the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he sat watching his great-grandfather's elegant hands—the same hands that were so skilled at inflicting pain and humiliation.
"They expect you to come," Lauren said, "don't they?"
Spock shut off the screen. Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to his wife. "If at all possible. Solkar was a prominent member of the clan. His katra will already have been enshrined in the Hall of Ancient Thought. It is customary for the family to attend a memorial service, during which his ashes will be scattered from atop Mount Seleya. There will be an honorary clan-gathering afterward.
Lauren's blue eyes searched him. "Now, of all times. What are you going to do?"
Reaching into the pocket of his robe, Spock drew out a small bottle of T-ban, the experimental hormone regulator Lauren had developed in her lab here at home. They did not speak much about the worrisome condition for which he was taking regular doses. They used pleasant euphemisms like "the fever".
Looking at the bottle, Spock said, "Your lovely green capsules do seem helpful. However…" There was no need to speak it aloud. They both knew he did not fully trust the drug—or himself.
oooo
The impact of Solkar's death sent Spock straight into remission. So he would go—not alone, they dared not risk that—but the three of them, as a family. It would, Lauren thought optimistically, be a valuable experience for Simon, who at six years of age had never set foot on the planet of his father's birth. They had always intended to visit Vulcan, but somehow time had slipped by, its passage all but unnoticed. One day Simon was in diapers, the next day he was caught up in school and violin recitals. And now there was also Little League. Though underage, he had begged to try out, and his advanced coordination had won him a place on a local team named the Giants. Sometimes it seemed to Lauren that he was growing up too fast, but Spock always assured her that such a thing was quite impossible. And full-blooded Vulcan children advanced even more rapidly.
As Lauren packed, she found herself looking forward to the trip, in spite of the grim reason for it. Starfleet Academy was on summer break and she had arranged her own schedule in order to spend a few weeks on Vulcan. Spock would have an opportunity to renew ties with family members and other acquaintances that he had not seen in years. Lauren could consult with healers on her Vulcan plakir-fee research.
She smiled as she packed her suitcase. There would be time for other things, as well. For now, Spock was still marginally fertile, and she might yet conceive another child—perhaps a little girl, this time.
Lauren pulled her mind back to the present. Clothing for her and Simon needed to be lightweight and cool, yet cut generously enough to protect them from the harsh sun and meet Vulcan standards of modesty. No shorts allowed. As for Spock, he could bundle up in the Sahara Desert at midday and feel pleasantly snug.
She paused in her packing to look at him and found Spock standing in front of the closet, lost in his own thoughts. He had been very quiet since receiving the news of Solkar's death, but at least his fever was still at bay. She would keep him on the T-ban and monitor his condition closely. Even if the capsules only acted as a placebo, they were better than nothing.
Simon appeared in the doorway. "Father. Is the sky really red on Vulcan?"
Father. It was the way T'Beth addressed Spock, and not long after her return from Donari, Simon had begun copying her and dropped "Daddy" from his vocabulary. No amount of coaching on Lauren's part would change his mind. Perhaps, with Spock's Vulcan heritage, such formality was inevitable, but from the beginning Lauren had insisted that Simon—who was fully three-quarters human—must be raised as a human.
Rousing himself, Spock turned from the closet. "You have seen the holographic displays at the Planetarium."
"I know." Simon came in and sat between the travel bags on the bed. "But that's not the same as being there."
Spock nodded. "That is true. But I assure you, Simon, the daytime sky appears quite reddish, due to Vulcan's atmospheric conditions and the characteristics of Epsilon Eridani."
"Vulcan's sun."
Assuming a pedantic air, Spock said, "The term 'sun' is Terran in origin, and refers more specifically to the star at the center of the Solar System. Although common usage allows for the word in other applications, 'star' would be a better choice when describing Epsilon Eridani."
Repressing a smile, Simon caught Lauren's eye and said, "Well, anyhow, we have the man in the moon, and Vulcan—Yatara—has a girl moon called T'Khut. Right, Father?"
"Wrong." Spock looked downright scandalized. "Contrary to the childish fable, there is no man in Earth's moon, which is properly called Luna. And T'Khut is not a 'girl moon'—it is not a moon at all, but part of Vulcan's double planetary system."
Simon gave his father an innocent look. "But if T'Khut is a planet, why doesn't anyone live on it?"
"Because," Spock said less than patiently, "not all planets are habitable. You should remember that by now. Have I not previously explained that—"
Breaking into another smile, Lauren interrupted. "Spock. That boy is teasing you."
Spock raised a speculative eyebrow and as he studied them both, Simon rolled back on the bed, giggling.
oooo
Spock did not realize how much he had missed Vulcan until the initial greetings with his parents were over and they left the travelers' concourse. At the sight of the promised red sky, a sharp pang swept through him. Pausing, he inhaled the hot, thin air with the hunger of someone who had been away much too long. It had been nine years, as his mother was fond of reminding him. Part of that time Amanda and Sarek had lived at the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco, so Simon was well acquainted with his grandparents. It was obvious that Simon loved Spock's mother. Amanda's humanity was something the boy understood and responded to, but he had always had difficulty with Sarek. Spock doubted that this visit would bring much improvement in the stilted relationship between the two. Although Spock was no longer a child, even he felt tense and uncomfortable around his father. He was glad he had brought his family. Lauren and Simon quickly filled any lapses in conversation during the skimmer ride to ShiKahr.
When they reached the estate house, Simon's attention immediately focused on a portrait hanging prominently in the living room. Pointing to the solemn, dark-haired little boy, he asked, "Who's that?"
His grandmother smiled. "Can't you guess?"
Simon's level eyebrows drew together as he studied the boy's features. Suddenly he whirled and stared at Spock, wide-eyed. "It's you, Father, isn't it?"
Later that day Spock withdrew to the room that had been his since earliest childhood, and sitting on the old, chipped meditation stone, attempted to collect his mind. Restless memories of the past were everywhere, and he had a difficult time centering himself. He felt rather hot and lightheaded, as if all the years in the cool, rich air of San Francisco had de-acclimated him to his native planet. But he knew that was not really the cause.
He rose from a light meditative trance to find his wife sitting quietly at his feet. She had become so much a part of him that he had not been disturbed by her presence. For a moment he just gazed at her, appreciating the loveliness of her face captured by the last slanting rays of Eridani. Bathed in scarlet, she offered him the forefingers of her right hand. He joined his fingers to hers, energizing the path of their bond. Silently she rose up and kissed his mouth. He came off the stone; his left hand caught her in the small of the back and drew her firmly against him. Suddenly he wanted her—right here, right now, with a breathless urgency that made him almost forget he was on Vulcan, where there were no locks to keep out curious little boys.
Withdrawing from the kiss, he forced himself to release Lauren. As they looked at one another, Eridani disappeared into the purple of twilight.
"You're feverish again," she said in some dismay.
"And you," he countered, "are exquisitely beautiful. Have I ever told you so?"
Her eyes glimmered violet in the shadows. "One thousand, three hundred sixty-two point seventy-nine times. Precisely."
He opened his mouth to correct the gross inaccuracy of her calculation, but abruptly realized that her statement was not meant to be taken literally. "You made that up," he accused.
Her answering smile faded. "The fever—when did it come on?'
"Only this past hour. I will be alright," he assured her. "After the evening meal we can plead fatigue and retire early."
Lauren looked troubled. "Spock, something's happened. A case of plakir-fee has been reported in ShiKetsu. And there's another patient, not yet officially diagnosed—but they're from the same town."
Spock sat down. Outbreaks were rare, and Lauren would want to examine the patients. "Then you must go," he said, though the words pained him.
"I can't leave you like this," she objected.
"The T-ban will see me through."
"Spock…if only you could come along."
"You know that is not possible." ShiKetsu would be under a strict quarantine affecting all Vulcans and even aliens capable of becoming carriers. "Lauren, you must not lose this opportunity."
Searching his eyes, she nodded reluctantly. "I'll go with you to the gathering tomorrow. If I'm satisfied with your condition, I'll leave for ShiKetsu the day after. But I won't stay long."
Spock reached out and touched his fingers to her lips. His blood burning, he said, "Be forewarned, my wife. This night I intend to make you very, very satisfied."
oooo
Spock awoke before dawn in a light sweat, and sitting up, swallowed a capsule with a drink of water from the bedside table. In the first half of the night he had given little thought to anything beyond the sating of his needs. Now, as dawn's light filtered through the high windows, he gazed down at Lauren and found that he still wanted her. Impatient with himself, he dressed quickly and went out into the cool morning air. Leaving his mother's garden, he briskly walked the peaceful streets of ShiKahr. The exercise seemed to ease his body's tension—or was it the dose of T-ban working its way into his system?
Near the town's center a young Vulcan woman stopped him, and he observed her physical attributes with only moderate interest.
"Chatai," she said, beholding him with thinly concealed awe. "Excuse me, sir, but are you not Spock, the father of T'Beth?"
Here on Vulcan, he was commonly referred to as the son of Sarek. It took an instant to adjust his thinking. "Yes. T'Beth is my daughter."
Her dark eyes lit. "Is she here with you?"
"No," he replied.
The light in her eyes faded. "How unfortunate. Please, sir—can you tell her that you met T'Jhur, and I asked after her?"
Spock agreed and they went their separate ways. He had never heard T'Beth mention a friend by that name, but he had left many details of T'Beth's memory unexamined during their meld. Puzzling over T'Jhur helped distract him from his body's demands. By the time he returned to his parents' home, he felt very much in control of himself. He was ready to face the clan Talek-sen-deen.
oooo
The gathering to honor Solkar had been delayed until Spock's arrival. As one of the musician's great-grandchildren and son of Ambassador Sarek, Spock was considered prominent enough to wait for—and no doubt there was a great deal of curiosity regarding his wife and son.
After the scattering of the ashes, Spock's family entered the ancient assembly chamber reserved for the day's convergence at Seleya. In some ways it was not unlike a Terran wake, with much food and drink—only here there was no loud talk or singing or potential for drunkenness. Vulcans took these occasions seriously, using them to renew ties with distant members of sub-clans, such as the S'chn T'gai family to which Spock belonged.
The chamber was crowded. Spock kept Lauren and their son close by his side as he circulated amid the enclave of relatives. Wide-eyed and subdued, Simon studied the dignified, unsmiling Vulcans, the baseball in his hand all but forgotten.
The throng shifted, and Spock found himself face to face with Sarek's brother. Spock was prepared for him, and for the deep-seated stirring of animosity his uncle's presence always aroused. Inclining his head, Spock addressed Sparn using the title appropriate to their relationship.
"Greetings, T'teer."
Though Sparn's hair was liberally peppered with gray, his sharp eyes were as disdainful as ever. Spock was practiced in tolerating Sparn, but it became more difficult when the look of disdain broadened to include Lauren and Simon.
"T'teer," Sparn said coldly. "I see that you have sired another offspring." His haughty gaze left Simon and lingered over Lauren. "A fine looking female. It is well that you chose to marry this one."
Spock felt Lauren touch his arm, as if she had sensed the anger rising in him. It was her signal that she would handle this.
"Yes," she said tartly. "Spock's doing very nicely with 'this one', thank you. And how are your offspring? Your daughters and granddaughters? As I recall, you have no sons…or grandsons. But do correct me if I am wrong."
Sparn arched an eyebrow and walked away.
"What an ass," said Lauren, just low enough to keep the profanity from Simon's inquisitive ears.
Spock turned toward her and raised an eyebrow of his own. "In some ways Sparn is very much like his grandfather Solkar."
"But he looks like you!"
"Yes," Spock concurred, "unfortunately."
As the afternoon wore on, Spock could see that Simon was growing tired and restless. Soon, if they wished, they could use it as an excuse to leave. Amanda appeared just long enough to take Lauren off with her to meet yet another relation. Alone for the moment, Spock gave his attention to Simon. The boy's hair had been cut a little shorter than usual for the trip. Its dark waves clung neatly to his head, fully—perhaps even defiantly—exposing the rounded human ears he had inherited from his mother. He looked painfully bored as he repeatedly tossed his baseball a short distance into the air and caught it with his right hand.
Some strange urge made Spock turn suddenly. Nearby, a woman stood watching him. She, too, was of the clan Talek-sen-deen, but he had hoped that she would not be here, for her husband had died not long before Solkar.
"Spock," she said in the aloof manner that he remembered so well.
"T'Pring," he acknowledged stiffly. "I heard of Stonn's death. My condolences."
"Yes," she said with something very much like sarcasm. "I am sure that you grieve with me."
It seemed to Spock that she was bitter, and that surprised him. She was the one who had rejected their betrothal bond, who had chosen instead a full-blooded Vulcan.
"Your son," she said with a slight flare of her delicate nostrils. "He is very human."
"Yes."
"And Lo-ren. Is that his mother's name?"
"It is," he replied, wanting only for the encounter to be over.
T'Pring gazed out over the hall. "Has she proved to be a good wife for you?"
There occurred one of those strange lulls in the undercurrent of conversations that left the chamber suddenly quiet—so very quiet that the sound of breaking glass caused every head to turn.
Spock also turned and looked toward the sound. In doing so, he realized that Simon was no longer at his side. Taking leave of T'Pring, he searched his way through the crowd and came upon the source of the disturbance. A huge, crystalline beverage decanter lay shattered on a buffet table. It contents had spilled over the surrounding food, onto the floor. In the middle of the mess was a round, white object. Simon's baseball. Simon himself stood not far from the damage, his eyes wide with fear.
Spock separated from the crowd and approached his son. "Simon," he said quietly, "what happened here?"
Simon gazed up at him, his lower lip quivering. "I didn't do it, honest."
Spock retrieved the incriminating, juice-spattered ball, and drew Simon away from the others. The weight of evidence was certainly against Simon, and Spock knew how easy it was for frightened children to lie. Holding the ball, he suggested, "Are you telling me it was an accident?"
Fighting tears, Simon shook his head adamantly. "It was a Vulcan boy. I was showing it to him. I was explaining how the game of baseball works."
"And then you threw the ball?" Spock pressed.
"No," Simon said, "he did. There—" He thrust out an arm, pointing. Spock turned and glimpsed the back of a dark-haired boy losing himself in the gathering. "Don't you believe me, Father?"
Spock sighed. "Yes, Simon. I believe you."
oooo
Lauren fought a nagging sense of uneasiness as she rode the first leg of her passage to ShiKetsu. She was worried about Simon, even though she knew her son would be well cared for by Spock and his parents. The baseball incident had upset him badly. Vulcan children, in their own way, could be as cruel as any other children. But most of all, Lauren was concerned about Spock. Having him here with her in the desert shuttle helped ease her mind, but what would happen when they parted? She could feel her body responding to his need for her.
Turning from the window, she looked at him, trying not to show her thoughts. But he guessed them anyway.
"I am alright," he said with a troubling hint of impatience. Irritability was a sure symptom of pon farr.
She said, "You always tell me you're alright."
"That is not accurate," he countered. "I only say so when I am."
Rather than argue, she stopped right there. The shuttle slowed as it approached the junction where she would have to transfer. Her heart began to pound as she rose to bid Spock goodbye. To her surprise, he got up and walked out with her and the other departing passengers.
"I am taking another shuttle," he said without further explanation.
"You are? Where are you going? Why didn't you tell me?"
Something in his eyes gave her the answer. Her heart pounded harder. "You're going to Gol—aren't you? To the Hall of Ancient Thought."
"Farewell, Doctor Fielding," he said firmly.
Now Lauren was absolutely sure of it. Why would he want to go anywhere near Solkar's katra? The strain would not be good for him, but there was no use trying to talk him out of anything once his mind was made up. And she could see that it was.
As she struggled with her feelings he touched his paired forefingers to hers, passing along a reassuring impression of strength.
"In three days," she promised him.
Then they boarded their separate shuttles and Lauren was alone with her worries.
oooo
A meditation garden abutted the black rock face of the Hall, which had been carved from the mountain in the time of Surak. It was an austere location, frequently swept by scorching winds, but thorn hedges and fig trees survived under the meticulous care of the kolinahru and initiates who resided here.
At one time Spock had been among their number. He had received instruction and meditated and denied himself every creature comfort in a fruitless attempt to rid himself of all emotion. He had left here too ashamed and embittered by the idea of failing to see the fundamental error in his thinking. It had taken him some time to grasp it, but when he did, the revelation had overwhelmed him with its simplicity. There is value in emotions, properly used. And now, back in the garden of Gol, Spock intended to sort through the miasma of unpleasant emotions bequeathed to him by a musician known and revered even beyond Vulcan.
Today the air was still. Spock drank from a fountain, using the cool water to swallow a capsule. Then he went to one of the shaded benches reserved for private contemplation. The garden, the water, and even the hard bench beneath him reminded Spock of one of the many whippings dealt out to him by Solkar. Skin bared, teeth clenched, struggling soundlessly to overcome the pain that threatened to break his boyish heart. The tears had been more difficult to contain; he had never been able to completely stop them.
Is that what Solkar had wanted from him? Perfect control? As a child, Spock had been
unable to achieve it. As a young man he had, perhaps, overcompensated.
Gazing up into the narrow leaves of the Vulcan fig tree, he considered a question that had long troubled him. Solkar was Sarek and Sparn's grandfather. Did he treat them as harshly as he treated Spock? If yes—then Sarek, as an adult, should have surmised what was happening to his son. He could have intervened and he should have, unless…unless he simply had not cared enough to do so.
Spock heard the soft sound of footsteps on sand. A cloaked figure approached and stood before him. A pair of smooth, feminine hands tossed back the cloak's hood, revealing T'Pring's still youthful features.
Though dismayed to see her, Spock felt his pulse quicken in a reflexive, physiological response. He put an immediate stop to it.
"I thought you might come here," she said. "Why waste your time? You did not even like Solkar. You told me so when you were eight."
"Yes," Spock said levelly, "but I am no longer a boy."
"True," she agreed. "You are not."
Her eyes took on a warmth that he had seen in them only rarely, and he was reminded of the summer of his fifteenth year. Anticipating the onset of his first Time, their parents had begun to create opportunities for the two of them to come together, so he and T'Pring would be something more than mind-linked strangers when they met upon the sand to consummate their bond.
Spock's mother had rented a summer home near T'Pring's family, and it was understood that he would perform certain social duties. Although Spock had never experienced a great rapport with his betrothed, once he worked his way past the initial awkwardness, those visits had not been altogether unpleasant.
T'Pring's parents were not really much wealthier than Spock's, but the way they lived had made it seem so. There had been rare and tasty food to eat, and many items of great interest. At fifteen Spock had been very much an innocent—inexperienced, untested, awed by the grandeur of her parent's estate, flattered by the attention T'Pring showed him.
One particularly warm day she had led Spock down into the coolness of her parents' cellar. He could still smell the musty odor as she descended the stairs before him, and drew Spock into the concealing shadows. He could still remember the shock of pleasure as she touched her hand to his for the first time; the softness of her skin as she began to openly caress his palm. He could still see the passion flaring in her youthful eyes as she seduced him with her mindplay. The clumsy, furtive coupling that followed had left him shaken and ashamed. Pre-marital sex between betrothed couples was discouraged among the young.
Spock had never lain with her again. His refusal had annoyed T'Pring, and when the promise of his manhood failed to arrive in the usual Vulcan timeframe, her disappointment deepened. When Spock turned eighteen there was talk of a bonding ceremony like that which he later shared with Lauren, but like many Vulcans, T'Pring considered the plak tow bonding the only true one, and would settle for nothing less. She would wait and see.
Another year had passed with no sign of Spock's blood warming. He left Vulcan for Starfleet Academy and did what he could to put matters of biology from his mind. In truth, he was glad to be spared the mating madness, even if some called it "rapture'. And though he regretted having failed T'Pring, it was a relief to be away from her.
Now T'Pring moved in beside him on the bench and said, "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to experience a true bonding? A Vulcan bonding?"
Her question, her very presence, was intrusive to the point of rudeness. Without looking at her he said, "That is something that I can never know, for I am not fully Vulcan."
"Your humanness intrigues me," she said softly.
Spock's eyes were drawn to her face. "I thought it was my humanness that sent you to Stonn's bed."
Boldly she moved nearer and touched her hand to his in an openly seductive caress. "Did you not also find your way to a lover's bed? I have seen your daughter T'Beth and I counted her years. She was born before I offered the challenge."
Spock pulled his hand away. He would not speak of his brief, life-altering affair with a Sy-jeera. "The past is past. There is no longer any bond between us."
She searched his face steadily. "Is there not?" Reaching out, she drew her warm fingers slowly down his cheek. "Do you not feel it?"
Spock fixed her with a cold stare until she removed her hand. Then, although it was not fully true, he said,"I feel nothing for you but pity."
T'Pring leaned closer. "I feel the stirring of your Vulcan blood. Your Time—it is upon you."
A surge of shame and revulsion brought Spock to his feet. T'Pring had scented him as if he were a sehlat in heat. In the past she had betrayed the bond of their betrothal, and so had he. But he would not now betray the bond he shared with Lauren.
She gazed at him, one eyebrow delicately arched. "Can you depend on a human? What if Lo-ren leaves you to die?"
"As you did?" Spock countered.
"I was young. I grew tired of waiting for you."
"Do not tell me that," he admonished. "I would have wed you in my youth, but you declined. At Kun-ut-kalife you had the husband of your choosing. Was he not all you thought he would be? Did his blood not burn hot enough?"
Her eyes grew moist with longing and regret. "He was not you."
Spock stared at her, his mind in turmoil, his body aflame. "Do not approach me again," he warned, and quickly left the garden. He was in no condition to face Solkar today.
oooo
ShiKetsu was smaller than ShiKahr, a parched scrap of a settlement tucked between two mountain ranges at Vulcan's equator. As Lauren alit from the shuttle, a torrid wind struck her with the searing force of a blast furnace. Clutching her bag, she hurried into the relative cool of the town's only medical center. Local Vulcans staffed the quiet, immaculately clean facility.
Though Spock had taught her some of Vulcan's First Language, she was not yet a confident speaker. Approaching a nurse's station, she fell back on Standard to introduce herself. A sandy-haired man popped in through a doorway at the station's rear and smiled broadly at her. Lauren blinked at the deeply tanned human in surprise.
"Do you know," he said in a cultured British accent, "how long it's been since I've heard Standard spoken like that?" As his gleaming blue eyes looked her up and down, he did not wait for a response. "My word! If you aren't a marvelous sight!"
"Hello," she said, as restrained as a Vulcan.
He gushed on. "And a human of the female persuasion, no less. Do you have any idea how long that's been?"
"No," she coolly replied, but judging by your forwardness, I'd say it's been a considerable length of time."
He looked genuinely abashed. "Am I being forward? Forgive me," he said, offering his hand. "Travis Van Allen, physician at large."
Lauren grasped his hand out of courtesy. "Doctor Lauren Fielding of Starfleet."
"Yes. I overheard," he said, prolonging the handclasp until even he became aware of the impropriety. He abruptly let go. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Lauren—may I call you that? It just feels so bloody good to touch somebody."
Though Van Allen's antics made Lauren uneasy, his behavior was understandable. Most any human isolated among Vulcans would eventually develop skin hunger and other emotional difficulties. She asked, "How long have you been here?"
He shrugged. His eyes were endearingly boyish and sincere. "Seasons upon seasons, as the Vulcans would say. I've bummed around so many of these clinics, I've lost track. Came here as a callow youth to study traditional Vulcan medicine. Somehow, I never found my way home." He offered a bright, hopeful smile. "Let me take your bag and show you to your berth. Then, the grand tour. What say?"
Lauren was definitely starting to relax. "Alright," she smiled in return. "Thank you."
A short time later, Doctor Van Allen introduced her to the Vulcan in charge of isolation. After passing through a sanitation field, they went into the hospital room where the victims of plakir-fee were being treated. By now the second case, a mere boy of thirteen, had been firmly diagnosed with the disease. Lauren's heart ached as she examined him and the young woman who had first been stricken. The boy lay semi-conscious in his bed. The woman had already progressed to second stage plakir-fee with its cruel illusion of improvement. Her yellowed face and stoic endurance reminded Lauren of Spock's own dreadful battle against the deadly disease shortly after Lauren joined the crew of the Enterprise.
As they left the room, Van Allen turned to her, his pleasant face full of concern. "You look a little peaked. Are you okay?"
Lauren took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes. It's only that…my husband…"
"Oh my God. Plakir-fee?"
Once more she nodded.
"You were married to a Vulcan?"
"I am," she corrected. "He survived third stage plakir-fee."
Van Allen glanced in confusion at the gold band on her finger. Vulcans did not survive third stage plakir-fee, nor adorn their wives with wedding rings. "Third stage! But that's impossible!" he objected.
Lauren shook off her melancholy and smiled at him. "You really have been buried out here a long time, haven't you? It was in all the journals."
A light dawned in his eyes. "My word, the Starfleet fellow, the half-Vulcan. Ambassador Sarek's son. What's his name?"
She told him.
"And you're the one working with histamine therapy."
"The very one."