Three
(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)
"Your vision will become clear
only when you can look into your own heart..."
The door to his office slid shut behind Cadet Morrison, and Spock allowed himself a small sigh. It was only just barely sixteen hundred hours, and already he was exhausted. He had spent the last six hours interviewing cadets for the position of Advanced Phonology Aide, per Rear Admiral Cole's request, and he could certainly see why each of the three cadets were qualified for a position in the communications department; they all had a particular affinity for excessive conversation.
Spock glanced down at the clock again. It read fifteen fifty three.
It was by pure coincidence that Cadet Uhura's interview had fallen latest in the day. Her name was, after all, last alphabetically. Spock had a nagging inclination—if his previous encounters with her were to be any sort of indication—that her interview would be the most wearisome of the four. 'The best for last', as his mother would often wryly say.
Indeed.
He loitered perhaps a moment too long on his way to the door, but he felt justified. His reactions to Cadet Uhura seemed to have been growing exponentially in their intensity—something that teetered on the edge of propriety. He thought back with chagrin on the previous day's encounter with her in the language lab. There was a line between experiencing emotion and letting emotion dictate actions, a line that he had toed carefully for the entirety of his life. It was a line of which he had found it increasingly necessary to remind himself in recent days. He had obligations—to Starfleet as an instructor, to T'Pring as a bondmate, to his father's people, his people, as an upstanding citizen. He could not allow physical attraction to a human female to tarnish any one of those obligations.
Satisfied that he would be able to maintain an adequate measure of professionalism, he opened the door. "Cadet Uhura."
As usual, she flashed him a bright smile as she passed. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Commander."
"Good afternoon," he responded in kind. As a child, he had found such pleasantries to be unnecessary and redundant. As an adult, his view of them had changed little, though his dual upbringing, in correlation with his father's position as a diplomat, had granted him some measure of hospitality above the level typically possessed by Vulcans in interactions with humans.
"How are you?" she asked as they took their seats.
He took a moment to consider her question. Unlike most humans, whom he had found seemed to breezily disregard the query and respond with an ambiguous "fine", he preferred to answer truthfully.
"Fatigued," he finally decided. "As you would say, I believe, it has been a 'long day'."
She grinned. "Julie Morrison has a way of wearing you out, doesn't she?"
He raised an eyebrow. He was required to keep a certain level of confidentiality regarding the interview process, but he found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with her observation.
"I have never had the fortune to encounter such a human before. Her mannerisms are quite fascinating," he said truthfully.
She mirrored his gesture, and he wasn't sure if it was natural or meant in jest. "I think the word you're looking for is 'irritating', sir. Possibly 'grating'."
A warm tendril of amusement curled in his stomach. "I regret I cannot make any further comment on the matter, Cadet."
She laughed, a warm bubbling sound that tilted her head back, and he found some small measure of pride in the fact that his eyes did not immediately move to trace the curve of her throat. "All right," she conceded, "I get it. I'll be good now."
Seeing this as an opportunity to segway into the interview, he pulled up Cadet Uhura's information on his PADD. Starfleet required that he confirm all of her personal information—again, redundant and illogical; one could simply look the information up in the student databases—so he began parroting back the details which she herself had supplied. "Uhura, Nyota Inaya. Date of birth, Stardate 2233.37, Nairobi, Kenya, United Federation of Africa." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her nodding, and he continued. "A 2252 graduate of Aga Khan Academy, where you possessed a four point zero grade point average, and a 2255 graduate of Kenyatta University, where you maintained a three point eight five grade point average and from where you obtained a Bachelor's of Science degree in Communications. You are currently classified as a first year cadet in the Xenolinguistics Department, with a current grade point average of four point zero, and are on an accelerated track to graduate Starfleet Academy in the spring of 2258, and enter into an active duty assignment in Starfleet. You have a scholarship contract which requires a minimum of five years of military service."
He glanced up for confirmation, and she nodded once more. "Yes sir."
He scrolled past her application, moving on to her resume. "You are the Vice President of Starfleet Academy's Chorale Ensemble, President and co-founder of the Starfleet Academy African Student Association, a member of the Lambda Pi Eta Sorority, and a student ambassador for the Academy." He quirked an eyebrow. "Is there anything I did not mention?"
She held back a grin with difficulty. "No, sir."
Spock returned the PADD to his desk top, no longer needing it as a reference. "Your character references also stated that you provide tutoring for other linguistics students. Why was this not enumerated in your resume?"
She appeared surprised; he inferred that she was unaware of the contents of her letters of recommendation. "I don't really tutor them, sir. They just...come to me with questions, and I answer them."
Spock cocked an eyebrow. "Is that not considered tutoring?"
She flushed. "I suppose so, sir. Yes. I just never thought of it that way. It's mostly simple stuff that I help them with, basic morphology and syntax, some vocabulary."
Her humility both pleased and impressed him. It was not a quality he expected in someone who possessed as many accomplishments as she. "You have quite an extensive list of extra-curricular activities, Cadet. A position such as this is considered by many to be time-consuming."
She understood the trajectory of his argument without further prompting. Frowning, she said slowly, "The limits of one's language are the limits of their world. I guess I just want to make sure everyone's world is as big as it can be." She looked up at him and met his eyes. "It's a big universe out there, Lieutenant Commander. There are lots of things we have left to discover, lots of things we've discovered that we're still learning more about. But discoveries aren't simply scientific. For each new life form that we encounter, we also encounter a new culture, and you can't fully appreciate a culture without fully understanding the way the culture communicates. You have to not only understand the grammar and the syntax and the vocabulary, but you also have to understand the origin of the language, where it comes from." She lifted a hand and pressed it against her chest, and he realized that she wasn't speaking about purely geographical location.
"You are proficient in sixty four per cent of Federation Languages, Cadet," he pointed out, unconsciously leaning towards her. "Do you presume to fully understand twenty nine cultures, the majority of which you have never personally encountered?"
She smiled, a wry gesture that curled up one corner of her mouth and narrowed her eyes. "Proficiency is not mastery, Lieutenant Commander. I would never presume to be entirely knowledgeable about any culture. But I understand where they come from. I understand the glue that holds them together. And that's the first step. A little bit of understanding gets you a long way with a lot of people."
She settled back in her chair, crossed one slender leg over the other, and he realized with a start that she had spoken her piece. The clock read sixteen oh seven.
He blinked. "Fascinating."
She grinned at him quizzically, and asked, "What?"
He hesitated, unsure that he should share the thoughts occupying his mind. It was clear to him after a mere seven minutes that she was the preferred choice for the position, and the conviction of his decision was troubling. Was there a possibility that he was letting bias cloud his judgment?
"I have spent six hours of my day," he began slowly, carefully, "listening to three other students expand on the reasons they believe themselves to be the best candidate. I have heard speeches on topics ranging from the effects of multilingualism on childhood development to the importance of stylized effective communication."
"It sounds like some people need to start practicing what they preach if it took them two hours to say that," she interjected, eyes dancing with amusement.
He stopped short; there was no need to continue his statement. Instead, he finished lamely with, "You will be informed two weeks before the start of the next academic semester of either your consequent acceptance or rejection. Thank you for your time, Cadet."
He would've expected any other human to be affronted at his abrupt end to the conversation. Instead, Cadet Uhura's smile softened, her eyes warming into that liquid pool of-
Spock forced his gaze away. He could not let her best him again.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. Have a good rest of the day. I'll see you tomorrow."
He simply inclined his head. As she left, he fought the illogical urge to watch her walk away.
His fist comes up to block his face, the blow stinging against his wrist. He spins, swinging, sidestepping into the dance he knows like the back of his hand: jab, jab, hook, circle, kick, feint...jab, hook, kick, circle, kick, jab. And again.
The simulation progresses in skill level with him, and it isn't long before sweat is streaming down his face and neck and back. He breathes in and out, letting the breaths flow with his punches, smooth and unyielding.
He is unable to meditate. He had tried, and it had failed. He can remember only two other occasions in his twenty seven years during which such a phenomenon had occurred.
He is unable to sleep. His dreams are haunted by her—by her smell and her face and the touch of her fingers and the brush of her breast. He has not slept in nearly five days, and he is so happy—so relieved—that he only has to be strong for two more days.
In two days, he will be on a shuttle to Vulcan. In two days he will be sixteen lightyears away from Nyota Uhura. In two days, he will be able to go back to his normal life, and forget she ever even existed.
Except, Vulcans don't forget.
And he doesn't want to forget.
The thought comes on forcefully, unbidden and unwanted, and he hits harder, panting. The simulation whirls around him, jumping forward when he pulls back, twisting when he turns. He catches sight of the projected image, and stops abruptly. The holo gazes right back at him, with his own eyes, and a chill runs down his spine.
His image has been superimposed over the simulated figure—no doubt enabled by the computer system's most recent update—and the sight is more than a little unsettling. He can feel the hair sticking to his forehead, the moisture seeping through his robe, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The figure in front of him shows no signs of distress; his hair is perfectly in place, breathing even, robe unrumpled.
He is fighting himself.
He is fighting passionately against his inherent human nature, but he has no misconceptions of which half his own body represents.
Next to the picture of perfect control, he feels ashamed of his heavy breathing, of the slight tremble in his hands, of the burn of emotion, hot and suffocating, in the back of his throat.
With a guttural cry, his arm comes up, and he beats and he beats and he beats and then he is left standing there all alone, shoulders slumped.
In order to overcome the imperfections of Vulcan control, he had to fall back on human barbarism.
The irony is not lost on him.
He grabs a towel and turns of the lights and slams the door on the way out.
It was not Spock's habit to frequent Terran bars, but as it was his last night in San Francisco, in addition to representing the culmination of his short three weeks as instructor, he had allowed himself to be talked in to accompanying Captain Pike.
By the time the two men arrived at The Milky Way Bar, the night's festivities were already in full swing. There was a small stage in the corner, which housed a three piece band and karaoke equipment. Small circular tables were arranged around the perimeter of a large open expanse of floor, upon which several people were dancing. Along one wall ran a bar, at which there were placed several intermittent screens broadcasting various televised sporting events. It was here that Captain Pike chose to sit.
"Bartender!" the captain called, waving over a young Tellerite in an apron. "I'd like a Budweiser classic. Spock?"
Spock scanned the list of drinks available. "As I am unfamiliar with the majority of these beverages, I will defer to your better judgment."
Pike grinned. "He'll have a Romulan Ale."
The bartender nodded, and turned to prepare their drinks. Spock watched him, mildly curious. "You are well aware that alcohol has no effect on Vulcan physiology, Captain."
"It's not about getting drunk, Spock," Pike said, accepting his bottle and taking a swig. "It's about the sport."
Spock raised an eyebrow as he brought the mug of ale to his lips. The liquid was bitter, and it burned the back of his throat when he swallowed, but it was not altogether unpleasant. "I was unaware that we were engaging in competition."
Pike laughed. "Are you kidding? I can hold my liquor pretty damn well, but I'd be crazy to try and go up against you. I've heard stories about your days as a cadet, Mr. Spock." He waggled his eyebrows in a manner than was strongly suggestive—not to mention it looked ridiculous. "I have to say, I never would've expected it from you."
Spock was aware of the particular incident to which Pike was referring. He had once, during his third year as a cadet, drained an entire keg on his own—purely for the sake of experimentation. It was an event that had gained a considerable amount of infamy over the years.
"I believe the saying is, Captain," Spock responded dryly, "'when in Rome, do as Romans do'."
The captain grinned. "And I suppose now that you're leaving 'Rome', you'll return to your straight-laced Vulcan self?"
"I have never been considered 'straight-laced' by Vulcan standards," Spock assured him. He didn't get the chance to elaborate on the subject, as a particularly rowdy gaggle of cadets swept into the pub and pressed against the bar, calling for drinks. Captain Pike and Spock maneuvered their way awkwardly through the pushy group, and found refuge at an empty table in the corner.
"There are lots of reasons I didn't go into teaching," Pike said as he scowled over at the cadets. "But that's a big one."
Spock regarded the group as he took another drink of his ale. He recognized several faces from his classes. "I find their company much more pleasant in an academic environment," he agreed.
A comfortable silence fell between the two as Spock allowed his gaze to travel across the bar, observing. The band had evacuated the stage, presumably in order to obtain drinks, and overhead speakers blasted a loud, electronic melody; the pounding bass shook the glasses on the tables. The song seemed to be a crowd favorite, though—as soon as it had come on, there had been an overall rush to the dance floor.
"The board approved the crewlist for the new flagship," Pike said after a few minutes.
Spock turned to him, eyebrows inching up in surprise. The subject of the USS Enterprise had been a rather testy one of late. The Starfleet Board of Reagents seemed to be split right down the middle on most of the major issues surrounding its commissioning. Some wanted only the newest, most innovative technology; others preferred the older, more "tried and true" systems. In some cases, they seemed to favor a younger, more vivacious crew; in others, they deemed older, more experienced officers necessary. Spock was sure the approval of the crew lists had been only marginal, and rife with contention. "Pleasing news."
Pike nodded. "Sure is. It's about time they made up their minds on something."
Spock thought back to the last draft of the suggested crew list that Pike had submitted, the one on which the captain had requested his input. It was a diverse blend of both senior officers and new graduates, from a variety of backgrounds and concentrations, but there were still quite a few holes. Pike had yet to decide on his choice of first officer, and he had purposely left free space on the roster for cadet assignments.
"They're set to begin division training in five weeks."
"The training of such an extensive roster is sure to span quite a length of time," Spock commented.
Pike leaned forward, elbows on the table, and opened his mouth to speak. He hesitated, though, and Spock felt a twinge of dry apprehension. The last time the captain had exhibited such behavior, Spock had ended up filling in as an instructor.
"You see," he finally said, "the thing is, the Providence is set to leave two weeks before training begins."
Spock felt his brow draw together in a frown. Pike was slotted to be the Captain of the Enterprise, but his duties aboard the Providence remained incomplete. It was a problematic situation, to be sure. "I see."
"And even though there are several well-qualified people to oversee the training in my place," Pike continued, "I can't think of anyone more qualified than the ship's first officer."
Spock frowned, comprehension evading him. "Indeed, Captain, though I see no reason that this pertains to me-"
"Now, I know you're set to go back out with us on the Providence, but I can find someone else to be Chief Science Officer." He paused, shooting Spock a meaningful look. "It's a little bit harder to find someone I'd like more than you as my second in command."
Spock blinked—once, twice, three times. He replayed the captain's words in his mind. Pike was asking him to be the second in command, the first officer, of Starfleet's newest ship, the new poster of the Federation?
Pike was grinning. "I know it's a lot to drop on you all at once. I was supposed to wait 'til you got back from Vulcan, but I just couldn't."
Spock was still speechless. "Captain, I—I..."
It was as close to stuttering as Spock had ever come.
Pike laughed, slapping a hand down on Spock's shoulder. "Take some time, think it over. Do your Vulcan meditation thing, or whatever it is you do. A flow chart, whatever. Give me a call when you get back, and let me know."
True to Vulcan form, the only thing he could think to respond with was a statistic: "Captain, should I accept your offer, I would become the youngest First Officer in Starfleet History."
The captain sat back, still grinning. "You sure as hell would, Spock."
"...who looks outside, dreams.
Who looks inside, awakens."
Carl Jung
Author's Notes: I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone so much for their interest so far; the amount of views Dahsau has gotten has absolutely blown me away! And to those who have reviewed—a special thank you. Your kind words are especially flattering.
A note on Uhura's age: Many people write their S/U origins fics with Uhura being fresh from high school, or secondary school, in her second or third year as a cadet, which would put her between nineteen and twenty one. I have a hard time swallowing that. Especially considering it would mean a seven to nine year age difference between her and Spock. I tried it that way, and then just had to go back and fix it. It wasn't something that sat well with me, or with the tone of the story. So here, if you do the math, her age figures out to be around 22 or 23, with a three to four year age gap. This would put her somewhere in the graduate studies range, which, is plausible for Starfleet—anyone recall Leonard McCoy, who, though a full medical doctor, attended Starfleet Academy?
Anyway. If it makes you uncomfortable, I'm sorry, but I try not to get too much into the little picky details. They're not that essential to the development of the plot, anyhow. Just one of the many creative liberties I've taken.
Another note, this one on holodecks: Someone pointed out to me that the idea of Spock actually hitting a physical figure during his sparring match was unlikely. However, if you'll reference old NG episodes, the holodeck aboard the Enterprise created entire worlds. You could swim, dance, get shot—the whole nine. So I figured my idea of them wasn't that far off.
Also, the number of federation languages—forty-five—came directly from the Star Trek Wiki
Uhura's statement during her interview isn't mine, either; it belongs to Ludwig Wittgenstein. An interesting guy to look into, if you've got spare time.
