Chapter One

It was only natural that the Federation would overrule Prime's suggestions and choose Maurhiwa, the desert wastes - and the Federation's white elephant - as the seat of the new colony. The scrubs of the land were grey and waxen, while only the tiniest creatures scuttled around; seeking whatever moisture they could glean from the sands. It was a merciless place. Maurhiwa, whose mass from space was a spectral yellow, where the air was dry and choked with dust: the very idea of it seemed ill-fitting, unbecoming of the last remnants of such a proud race.

Yet there T'Hual stood, the capital. Built from the plentiful supplies that Starfleet furnished, T'Hual sprawled for miles. Miles of stones carved intricately in the manner of those on old Vulcan, in a surprising nod to a sense of nostalgia, which rose and flourished into high stories and arched in colours of steel and brownstone, visible from space as gleaming needle points. Yet, it was by no means the ancient lands that had supported Vulcan steps throughout all their history. Starfleet had provided the means for food, for water, for breathable air, and their own efficiency and knowledge of arid terrain meant that the colony was functional within the phenomenal time of six years: but it was not their home. No, Maurhiwa was merely a place that would suffice as a foundation for the survivors of Nero's act.

Of course, such emotions barely featured within the Vulcan scope, and at the end of six years, three months and thirty eight hours, ten seconds, from the time construction began, the colony was fully functioning. The colossal structures of the Science Academy and the new High Council dominated the skyline, much as they dominated the two factions of the Vulcan psyche: logic, and the application of ritual to the fiery outbursts of Pon Farr.

For now, Maurhiwa was…enough. A root to cling to, when there were no others.

Yet their society was reeling in the intensely private way that only it could. There could be no avoiding the truth of the matter: their planet had been ripped from under their feet, against all reason. In such times, those who had resisted the usual and more rigorous emotional conditioning, at the age of six, were quietly regarded with a faint suspicion. How would they react? Though they did not express emotions as freely as humans, they were to be seen smiling and laughing occasionally among their own peers, or reflecting moodily on some personal difficulty. There were those who spoke outright that, logically, at such a vulnerable time there was the possibility of "contamination" or of some kind of rebellion. Most individuals privately congratulated themselves for having an obviously superior confidence in their own control.

The death of Sirar, the Elder, and the quick rise of Sumar, the city's architect, to his place did not help matters. The humans had a saying that unfortunate events came in threes - Sarek, in an idle moment, often anticipated what would follow. Of course the Vulcan's were suspicious, and were disappointed by Starfleet's ruling of a "natural" death. All death was organic by nature: sometimes it was merely augmented by force. It was interesting to note how gravely these suspicions were dismissed, at least to those without the skills to read a Vulcan face. It was illogical to maintain them without facts, and so the matter was dropped - at least publicly. After all, they had a new planet to make their own.

Sarek was seated in a contemplative mood at his desk, his face impassive. His desk, like the rest of his little house, was meagrely furnished, with only his computer and a small picture of Amanda in the far corner. It was emotional, of course, but Sarek was beyond the point of embarrassment. Why should he not grieve the loss of his wife just as the rest of his race mourned the loss of their planet? There was logic in equality, especially when he refused to allow his day to day life to be ruled by such sentiments. He missed Amanda, and missed the child that she had raised with him - the one he had once, shamefully, dismissed as "so human" on the day he was born. Of course the child was human, it was his birthright. Just as Vulcan was, just as Starfleet was, and the rest of the universe. Just as a father's pride was.

He sighed. Perhaps he was being a little illogical. After all, Spock was on the planet now, in the final stages of his inquest into Sirar's death, and at Sarek's request. There was no call for the luxury of missing him, other than the odd need to make sure that Spock, too, was not at risk. Suddenly the course of his thoughts changed, and he considered the human woman - Uhura. She was a good match for Spock, though it had taken time to grow accustomed to her. He recalled first meeting her and he mentally shuddered at how unpleasant it had been. At first he had objected…then Spock, whose skills appeared to have been sharpened by life under Captain Kirk, had argued with him. What could Sarek have said? His son's logic was flawless: T'Pring was among those who had perished in the cataclysm, and in a few years the Pon Farr would require the presence of a mate. His son was "fond" of Uhura, as Spock had said with a wry look at the female, and since it was not without precedent, why should she not become his partner? Sarek recalled the slight rise at the corner of his mouth, and had eventually bowed his head.

"I can have no objections, my son."

That had been approximately four years and two days ago, though a formal bonding was yet to take place. Sarek raised an eyebrow at that thought: perhaps his son enjoyed the freedoms of a partnership without the constraints of marriage. How very human.

Perhaps that was acceptable.

Spock himself had not changed a great deal since that day, though Sarek - in his own way - had fretted that the great blow to their race would release him from their control. It was not so, and neither had the proximity of the humans - his officers, or his…lover - deadened the sense of loyalty Spock had for his people. It was illogical, but Sarek insisted that Spock speak only Vulcan while they were at home together; though while this proved to become routine, it was unnecessary since Nyota could speak Vulcan quite proficiently, although there was one occasion where she had addressed him as though he were female. She was intelligent, and seemed to understand the privacy of the Vulcan soul: she had not once indulged in one of the distasteful emotional displays so common among humans, and had barely touched Spock, at least not in front of Sarek.

Time to move on.

The matter of Sirar's death was troubling. The coroner ruled that Sirar had suffered a stroke that had killed him within minutes. Of course, it was a perfectly common occurrence, but the shadow of Sumar hovered over the death and Sarek could not ignore it. He could not have explained why. As an ambassador, he had spent a great deal of time among the political elite of the new colony, and Sumar had always been a presence there, however minor. It was inevitable that their minds would brush lightly against each other, however briefly - for sometimes not even the Vulcan's had enough energy to maintain their legendary control.

No, Sarek had…felt…something, or had seen a stray thought in Sumar's mind. It was nothing concrete, and certainly nothing he could legally obtain evidence of, since to use ones telepathy to extract information forcibly was a great taboo. But Sarek had seen it, and so had contacted the Federation, anticipating that their inquiries would dig up something against Sumar. But they had not, and the case was considered closed. All Spock was required to do was draw up a report and deliver it to delegates from the Council. He will be home within the hour…

Yes, Spock was a perfectly satisfactory son.

"…then from your report, we may consider that the cause of Sirar's death natural causes and not, as your father suspects, by the application of force from an external party?"

"That is correct, T'Pau."Spock replied. T'Pau - if ever a mortal being could claim to be indestructible, it was she. "From the evidence gathered, logic dictates that there is no reason to continue a murder inquiry."

T'Pau and her delegates murmured softly among themselves for a few minutes. Spock watched on, observing every gesture each of them made. There was a divide in the group: Sarek was highly regarded by the council, and he was influential. T'Pau, with her ancient and sedate stubbornness, eventually shouted overruled them. The mechanics of her brain were well maintained, even after all these years, and her proud resolution of Sumar's innocence was dominating.

Final the group was silent, and T'Pau turned back to Spock, "This is pleasing. We may consider the case formally closed. You are dismissed, Spock. Peace and long life," T'Pau made a move to rise from her seat and leave, before she reconsidered and looked back at Spock, "Peace and long life, Spock, to you and your…human."

Spock's only raised his eyebrow. There were Federation officials -Admirals and Commissioners - listening to the live translation of the proceedings, and her implication would have been dissolved inside the complexities of the Vulcan rhetoric. There was simply no need. "Thank you, T'Pau." He neither raised his hand in salute, nor did not offer her the customary farewell. She waited a moment, but it never came. She nodded her head curtly, and led her delegates away out of the hall. Spock turned on his heel, and spotted Nyota in the crowd. She, at least, had understood. She wasn't wearing the translator, and her face was uncharacteristically expressionless. He nearly smiled, and she beamed back in response.

Everyone began to file out slowly, murmuring amongst themselves, and Spock walked over to Nyota. She took his hand. "That must've been hard, Spock." she said.

"It was neither easy nor difficult. It was duty, Nyota."

"Faithfully carried out, Spock." called out a voice. Uhura started, while Spock merely turned his head. At the far end of the hall sat Sumar, alone. He was a young man, and Spock could perceive the subtle nuances in his carriage, and even in the carefree light of his eyes, the emotions that were freer to him than to most others. Sumar proved the point by smiling broadly, before suddenly dropping his face back into the passive mode assumed by most Vulcans. Spock smiled inwardly at Nyota's surprise. She had heard of Sumar, of course, but had never actually seen this type of behaviour among his kind. He rose and bowed low. "I am Sumar, though I imagine you know this."

"I do."

"You know me because of your father. He thinks I had something to do with Sirar's death, I believe."

"That is true."

"Am I a suspect?"

Nyota cleared her throat, "Didn't you hear them? No, you're not."

Sumar glanced at Nyota. "Very good. I am relieved." Sumar was tall, about a head taller than Spock, and to all appearances was entirely Vulcan, though Nyota perceived the subtlety of his expressions, the tiny expressions of emotion that it took Spock years to get comfortable with showing her. "It is not at all pleasant to find oneself in this kind of embroilment, however unfounded the accusation. Thank you, lady, for indulging my emotional need to feel vindicated."

"You're, uh, welcome."

Sumar straightened and saluted Spock, "Peace and long life."

Spock replied in kind, "Live long and prosper, Sumar."

Sumar smiled quickly, before bowing low to the two of them. He parted through the doors through which T'Pau and the rest of those present had parted, and left Spock and Nyota alone in the hall. "Do you trust him?" Nyota asked.

"Interesting. I can only rely on the evidence I received from the coroner, which indicates that Sirar died from a stroke. However, my father still feels suspicion towards Sumar, much like I still do. It is not logical."

Nyota smiled and put her arm through Spock's while they walked towards the doors, "Maybe your human's just rubbing off on you a bit."

Kirk sighed once he returned to his quarters. It was good to have that business out of the way. The idea of murder on Vulcan was disturbing. He had seen how manipulative Vulcans could be, particularly T'Pau – though thankfully she channelled it into political agendas, though he wouldn't want to tempt fate. Still, it was over. Not murder, simply the end of a life.

Besides, there were other things to think about. He remembered the panic that had ensued a few years ago in Starfleet headquarters after reports of what happened with Nero had been leaked to the Empire. There had been sporadic reports of backlash against any Federation vessel that went anywhere near the Neutral Zone, and such attacks were becoming more frequent. Spock would have called it illogical - by their standards Nero wasn't even born, and therefore technically not one of their citizens. Spock really had no idea sometimes.

Of course, the Federation was expecting war. The Romulans, the glimpses at what a Vulcan could become, were ferociously protective of their own when it came to Starfleet action, and though Nero had obviously been a rogue, the point was moot. The rumblings that filled the dark, awful silence of space were growing louder, and Pike had alerted all ships to exercise greater caution.

But there was peace, at least for now, and it was ridiculously late at night. Kirk dimmed the lights, and crawled into his bed.

Whatever was to happen, it would wait until tomorrow.