Christine returned to a house that felt curiously empty, despite its small size. She stood for a moment in the doorway, her eyes roaming across the vacant room, then stepped in, and closed the door. At the noise of the latch there was a scrabbling from an overlooked corner, and Sacha came panting over to her with languid steps and a limply wagging tail, looking forlornly behind Christine for Spock.
'Oh, he'll be back in a week,' she said briskly, ruffling the fur on the dog's head. 'Anyway,' she continued over her shoulder, walking over to a panel on the wall. 'At least we can turn up the air conditioning for a bit – spend a week without getting heat stroke.'
Sacha gave a disgruntled groan, and went to lie under the vent that had begun to spew out increasingly chilled air.
'I don't know why you're complaining,' Christine muttered. 'You get a week off duty, but I've got work to do.'
She crossed to the computer terminal without hesitation. Much as she might complain about working, she would rather work than sit aimlessly in a chair missing Spock. He would be back in a week, and she had put off her daily check of the quadrant's medical journals and reports in order to take him to Gol. Just skimming and dismissing the vast amounts of information could take hours, and it would certainly stop her from dwelling on Spock's absence.
They had not engaged in research into other methods of treating Spock's form of blindness since the discovery of the disruptor treatment that had seemed so hopeful. There had never been any need. But now she was finding out just how little there was out there amongst the reams of research that were diverted to her terminal. The type of blindness was relatively rare – rare relative to the population of the galaxy – but it also affected a large number of individuals, no matter how small their percentage was in relation to the population around them. You could have filled a large town with sufferers of Spock's peculiar form of blindness. A lot of people suffering, but not, it seemed, a lot of people researching treatment methods, especially since the disruptor treatment pioneered on the Enterprise suited so many people very well. There was an awful lot of material relating to blindness, but very little of it had any pertinence in Spock's case. Still, it all had to be examined before it was dismissed…
Two hours later she was still sitting at the monitor, sipping coffee, her eyes prickling with tiredness from staring at the screen for so long as she scrolled through the various medical journals and reports that had come through to her terminal that morning. But then something flashed up on the screen…
Adaptation of McCoy/Spock (2268) Treatment for C-Dionyxalide-Partho Blindness, for application to more vulnerable tissue types. Suggestions for refinement.
She leant forward, bringing her face close to the screen as she accessed the abstract, scanning the text for relevance. It seemed relevant. Beautifully relevant.
Where was it? Where was this research based?
Her fingers flew over the keyboard again, and she found her answer.
Dr H. L. Alunan, Royal Institute of Xenobiological Research, London, United Kingdom. Earth.
Earth…
They had begun researching almost as soon as the problems with Spock's treatment had been discovered. How had this slipped by? She noted the date at the top of the paper. The research, in tentative, early stages as it was, had only been published fifteen hours earlier. Had she performed this search yesterday it would not have shown up...
Her fingers itched to send a transmission to Gol. But no. There was – no logic – in disturbing Spock. Best to first determine the worth of the research, and whether it applied at all in Spock's case. Best to determine whether Spock would be a viable candidate, whether visiting Dr H. L. Alunan, London, United Kingdom would be of any use. Whether she should start making arrangements for a relocation to her home planet…
She smiled. Once on Earth, with access to transporters and high-speed shuttles, proximity to London would make very little difference. They could stay anywhere on the planet as long as it was near transport links. It was a long time since she had visited home…
She paid the requisite fee without hesitation to access the document, and brought it up on her screen. A mixture of facts and suggestions leapt out at her. Adaptation for more sensitive tissue types. Early experiments show limited success. 17.38% cell regression in most successful study. Between the lines, it was obvious that the man was floundering. He had something, some kernel of worth, but the research was in its infancy, and it had a long way to go.
Christine smiled, leaning back in her chair and gazing at the information on the screen. Odd that it should satisfy her, but it did. She had spent a large amount of time focussed exclusively on bio-research before joining the Enterprise. She still spent a considerable amount of time engaging in her favourite subject as part of her role on the ship. She had lost count of the times she had stood in the lab alongside Spock or McCoy, an equal in their task rather than simply a useful assistant. Here was another research subject to become immersed in, but it was one that meant so very much more to her than most…
17.38%… Even without improvement, that could mean viable tunnel vision for Spock. It could mean the difference between seeing nothing but a hint of light – and seeing.
She thrust aside the spike of excitement. It would not help her to focus on her research. Best not to see the end goal. Best to look at the path immediately ahead of her. She settled down before the computer and began to cultivate an intimate familiarity with Dr H. L. Alunan's research.
''''''''''''''''''''
Spock was halfway through a detailed retelling of the accident that had caused him to lose his sight. Even now, with the memories distant and distorted in his mind, the thought of those few minutes in the Enterprise's phaser control room, and the days and weeks that followed, still caused his chest to tighten with unwelcome emotion.
'Spock,' Solek said eventually, cutting across his words. Spock's distress was palpable to the aged instructor, but it was also crucial to his examination of Spock's responses. 'This is enough, for now. May I?'
Spock steadied himself, pressing his lips together as he attempted to control his ragged emotions.
'Spock, may I touch your thoughts again?' Solek clarified.
He must have been already holding out his hand for the meld, because at Spock's nod his fingers instantly touched Spock's skin.
'No, relax,' Solek urged him, as Spock struggled to draw a blanket of equanimity over his thoughts. 'At this point I don't want you to control. I want to understand precisely how you feel. That is the purpose of this exercise.'
Spock shut his eyes, fighting against everything he had ever been taught to withdraw his attempts at control. He felt the fingers of Solek's mind catching him, supporting Spock's own fraying network of thought even as he examined exactly what was there. Spock was put in mind of a fisherman, feeling through the net that he held, trying to discover precisely where it was that the fish were slipping through.
A creative metaphor, Solek thought inside Spock's mind. You were always creative within your own mindspace. But your fisherman is feeling the net. He does not see the holes in its structure?
Spock's hands moved as he thought again of the fisherman, feeling the imaginary net under his own fingertips. It was a structure of hard knots and loose, frayed lines, and the damage was difficult to perceive because the net was vast and rucked across his knees, and the holes held very little difference in touch to the constructed holes that created the net. A stale scent of salt water and fish rose about him. He had smelt that scent in San Francisco, during his days at the Academy…
But you also saw the nets then, Solek reminded him. At no point did you touch them. You sawthem, at a relative distance.
Yes, that was true. Spock recalled standing on a narrow pier that jutted out into the water, watching the fisherman who sat on a boat down below, feeding the net through his callused hands. The visual aspects of the scene that came back to him were patchy and distorted. Far stronger was the scent of salt water, and the sound of seals and seagulls, the chatter of tourists, water slapping the side of the boat, the sound of boots on the pier, making a hollow noise on the wood.
That is quite fascinating, Spock. You regret what you do not see, yet you barely remember sight.
I remember what sight gave me, Spock thought wistfully. Freedom, independence, ability...
Images drifted through his mind – moving with swift surety through an unfamiliar landscape, piloting a vehicle by sight alone, picking up food containers and knowing what was in them without asking another person to label them… Those images were tangled and interwoven with his hand clasped about a human-cool arm, feeling the fabric under his fingers, with hesitating on the threshold of a door, beset with uncertainty over what was outside, with being told, no, not this mission, Spock, it's too dangerous… Not this planet. The terrain and the natives are unpredictable… Not this time, you can't…
Solek almost revealed shock at the force of Spock's sudden burst of frustration. Spock's mind leapt to repress the feeling, but he held himself back, and allowed it to flood through his mind and Solek's. Solek accepted the tumult with admirable equanimity, processing and analysing Spock's emotion as if it were no more than a scientific problem. Finally he withdrew his hand and said, 'I understand now, Spock. We may begin to tackle the problem. But I think, for the present, a break would be opportune. We have been working for four hours now. Even the most disciplined of minds can become weary.'
Spock's eyebrow rose. Sunk in the timeless space of meld, he had not realised that so much time had passed. It must be approaching evening. The fierce heat through the window had mellowed into something more muted and gentle, and he imagined that the sun must be nearing the end of its daily journey towards the ragged peaks that surrounded Gol.
'Come,' Solek said, as if he had read Spock's thoughts. 'It is approaching time that the evening meal is served. I will show you the refectory, and we may eat together. We have twenty-three years to discuss, do we not?'