Chapter Four: Adapting

Disclaimer: Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

She comes to with a start.

Her Starfleet training kicks in automatically and she doesn't move, listening for whatever woke her. In the dark room, all she hears is the steady thrum of the Enterprise's engines.

A dream then, or someone passing loudly in the corridor outside her quarters, must have pulled her out of her sleep. Breathing in and out slowly, Nyota wills her tensed muscles to relax.

And then she hears it, a soft susurration that is at once familiar and unidentifiable, a noise so faint that she has to strain to catch it.

Spock.

Sliding her shoulder from under the duvet, she rolls over gently and faces him. The only light in the room is from a small candle globe on the dresser but it's enough for her to see that he's asleep, his hair ruffled as it never is when he is awake, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

She so rarely sees him this way that she resists the temptation to curl up and give in to sleep right away. Instead, she lets her gaze drift over the shadows of his exposed ear, the plane of his shoulder. The sound of his breathing is louder now that she is turned toward him, and more irregular than she had first thought.

Perhaps he is dreaming—though he's told her more than once that Vulcans rarely do. More likely, he's working something out in his unconscious—looking for the discrepancy in the fuel consumption logs, for instance, or reviewing tomorrow's crew rotation.

A flicker so subtle that she almost misses it creases his brow. An unhappy thought?

She stretches out her hand and brushes the tip of her forefinger across his upturned palm, hoping to quiet whatever is troubling him.

At once she feels herself falling into a vortex of electricity and color, a kaleidoscope of sensations so dizzying that she presses her eyes shut. A roaring sound in her ears—a blast of heat on her face—and then the spinning stops and she opens her eyes.

The dark room has been replaced with a dusty plain so bright that she lifts one hand to shade her eyes. Vulcan—or what she imagines it must have looked like.

"Why are you here?"

Spock's voice, coming from behind her right shoulder.

"Is this a dream?" she asks, and he says, "A memory."

Before she asks him to explain, she sees a knot of young Vulcan children walking past, all dressed in school uniforms. Two very small boys run ahead, one kicking up dust, the other stooping to examine something in the road. The older children—close to adolescence but not quite there—are chatting with each other. Following twenty paces behind is a dark-haired boy a few years younger, his arms wrapped around his satchel.

"You?" Nyota asks, but suddenly she knows what he knows—that the largest, loudest boy is Stonn, that when he falls back from the crowd of children and deliberately jostles Spock, knocking his satchel from his arms and scattering his padds and styluses, no one pauses or looks back.

The loneliness is more overwhelming than any sense of injustice.

Another view—Spock at a table in a kitchen, his school satchel in a chair beside him, someone—his mother?—bustling in the background, opening and shutting the stasis unit, preparing a meal. A much older boy, a young man really, enters the room. Something he says elicits laughter—yes, from Spock's mother, who pauses and hands him a glass of water.

Sybok. Spock has told her several stories about him, but she's never seen him this clearly, the way he stands etched in Spock's memories.

"What's this?" Sybok says, lowering his hand into Spock's satchel and pulling out a padd, dust-covered, scratched.

Darting a glance at his brother, Spock says, "I dropped it."

Not a lie, but not the truth either.

Still, Nyota feels what Spock feels, guilt and more than a little worry that Sybok will call him to account.

"This one, too?"

Sybok is suddenly holding up another padd. Spock looks away. His mother stops what she is doing and says something indistinct.

The scene shifts again, this time to Spock's bedroom, neat and orderly in a way that presages his habits now. He's dressed in loose fitting sleeping clothes, sitting cross-legged on the bed, his chin resting in his hands. Sybok is there as well, pacing the length of the room.

"If someone at school is harming you—" Sybok says.

"I wasn't harmed," Spock says quickly, almost breathlessly.

"If someone at school is harming you," Sybok says again, more deliberately this time, "then you have to stop it. Tell your teachers, or tell me or Father."

"There is nothing to tell," Spock says, which is also not quite a lie and not quite the truth.

Sybok stops pacing and stands near the bed, looking down at Spock.

"If you will not seek help," he says, "then you must defend yourself. If someone is harming you, you must adapt to his rules of engagement."

"You are suggesting that I use violence?"

"Sometimes violence has to be met with violence," Sybok says, and Nyota sees Spock's face reflect the horror she knows he feels.

"That is not the Vulcan tradition."

With an audible sigh, Sybok sits on the bed beside Spock.

"No, it is not. But it might be the right thing to do."

The room begins to swirl and Nyota blinks twice and opens her eyes. She's in her quarters in her bed. By the light of the candle globe she can see that although Spock hasn't changed his position, he's awake, watching her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she says, and he lifts his arm, an invitation for her to scoot closer.

"I am glad you did," he says, brushing her hair from her cheek and tucking his chin against the top of her head, a rare gesture of tenderness.

"You're worried that we won't find him," she says simply, suddenly knowing that it is true.

"Yes," he says, pulling her tighter to him. "And worried that we will."

X

"Are you busy?"

The answer was so obvious that Sarek wasn't sure how to respond. Of course he was busy, if by busy Ms. Grayson—Amanda—meant productive. When was he ever not productive during office hours, in his office? Surely she could see that he was busy with the thorny problem of the Lovirian trade agreement spread across his computer monitor, stacks of flimplasts on his desk.

This must be one of those times when someone's words were different from the actual meaning.

Sarek glanced over his shoulder to the corner where Amanda was sitting behind a small desk. Her chair was pulled out and angled toward him, and she was leaning forward, one elbow propped on her knee, her chin resting in her hand. An informal pose, yet the look on her face was…serious? Troubled? He still had difficulty parsing her facial expressions.

Not for lack of trying. Even when Amanda wasn't speaking to him —or looking in his direction, for that matter—, he often found himself studying her face for clues to her mood. His efficiency suffered as a result.

If she noticed, that might explain her question about being busy. Perhaps she was concerned that his productivity was less than optimal lately.

He turned back to his monitor. "Do you require something?"

"If this is a bad time, I can wait," she said.

"Please, proceed."

He heard one leg of the chair scrape on the floor. A rustle followed—her adjusting the hem of her skirt, most likely. By human standards the skirt was modest, the curve of her knee just visible. By Vulcan standards, of course, she was nearly naked. More than once Sarek had debated asking her to refrain from wearing such attire.

For some unaccountable reason, he had not yet had that conversation.

"Well, I have some questions about the policy manual," she said.

"I assumed you would," Sarek said, thumbing to the screen that listed all the historical trading partners of the Lovirian syndicate. "That's why I asked you to review it."

She took a sharp intake of breath, something he noticed she did when she was about to say something she deemed unpleasant. He braced himself and thumbed to the next screen.

"How old is this policy manual?"

An innocuous comment. He relaxed his shoulders and said, "An aide to Ambassador Kuvar wrote it when the embassy was first established here. As far as I know, it has never been revised."

He returned to the first screen listing the Lovirian trade partners and scanned them again. The Triffians had to be here somewhere. He was sure he had seen them earlier.

Amanda took another deep breath.

"That explains a lot," Amanda said. "This part about social interactions with humans, for instance. Have you read it?"

"Before being posted on Earth, yes. The manual is required reading for every embassy worker."

"But it's ridiculous! It sounds like it was written by someone who had never met a human before!"

There the Triffians were, listed at the very top of the page. Odd that he had overlooked them twice. With a quick motion, Sarek tabbed the page for later.

"The odds are high that neither Ambassador Kuvar nor his aide had met any humans when the manual was written," he said, darting a quick glance backward. Amanda was stock still, staring at him. An unreadable expression fluttered across her features.

"No wonder it's full of bad advice!"

Despite himself, Sarek felt a prickle of irritation. After all, the manual had done good service for many years. Or at least reasonable service. Calling it ridiculous was an excessively emotional reaction.

"Such as?"

He turned back to his computer and called up a map of the contested trade routes.

"Such as this."

Her chair squeaked and Sarek knew that she was leaning toward her own computer monitor.

"Begin every conversation with a human," she intoned in the telltale rhythm of someone reading aloud, "with a laudatory observation about the participant's appearance or abilities."

Without taking his eyes off his screen, Sarek said, "Is there a problem with that?"

"This treats humans like silly children who have to be flattered! Laudatory observations!" she huffed. "Begin every conversation with a compliment. Look how formulaic it is, how insincere!"

"I have observed that humans begin most conversations with formulaic commentary."

"Sure, things like hello and how are you. But that's not what this manual is suggesting. Poor Tirek! Every time we meet for his language tutorial, the poor man tries out new words for smart and beautiful. No wonder he keeps scheduling more vocabulary lessons!"

The air in the room was suddenly close and hot. A malfunction in the air exchanger, no doubt. Sarek made a note to have T'Lin call the repair technician.

"Tirek should not monopolize your time," he said. Leaning forward, he narrowed his focus to the computer screen.

"Oh, he's not," Amanda said quickly. From the sound of her shoes shooshing on the floor, Sarek knew that she had uncrossed her legs and was sitting primly upright in her chair, the way she did when she was particularly insistent in her arguments. "In fact, that brings up another concern about the policy manual."

"Indeed," Sarek said, and Amanda continued.

"The manual says that the staff are encouraged to stay in the embassy compound."

"That is logical," Sarek said, sitting back from the monitor. "After all, we live here."

"But what about socializing? And touring the sites around town? Tirek told me that he's never even been out to eat in San Francisco."

"You discussed eating establishments with Tirek?"

"That's something the policy manual needs to stress," she said. "The importance of sharing food. Humans spend a great deal of time getting to know each other over meals. Yet the manual doesn't mention that at all. Tirek seemed surprised when I suggested we share a meal."

A wave of intense discomfort, almost physical, washed over him.

The unexpected difficulty he was having with the Lovirian trade agreement was obviously to blame. He looked at the map on his computer monitor with a feeling close to disgust—it was clearly incomplete and inaccurate. If he wanted to pilot past the impasse in the agreement, he would need better data. No use to continue working on the treaty until he had better information.

With a snap of his hand, he turned off his computer.

"Is something wrong?" Amanda asked.

"Vulcans do not socialize during meals," Sarek said. Picking up a stack of flimplasts, he began sorting them. "Mealtimes are for consuming sufficient calories, nothing more."

To his surprise, Amanda laughed.

"And that's…logical?" she asked, still laughing. Setting down the flimplasts, he turned in his chair to face her.

"Indeed. We value efficiency, Ms. Grayson."

Rather than drawing a disapproving frown from her, his words made her laugh harder. He watched as she ducked her chin down and looked away briefly before reaching up to tuck back a stray lock of hair.

The sight of her fingertips brushing the curve of her ear made his breath hitch in a way that was curiously disconcerting.

The temperature controls in the room definitely required attention.

"Oh, you do?" she said, smoothing the palms of her hands along the lap of her skirt. "Well, it seems to me that it would be more efficient to eat while you socialize—you know, do two things at once."

Consciously slowing his breathing, Sarek said, "It is not Vulcan tradition to do so."

"I understand that," Amanda said, "but when in Rome—"

"Rome?"

"It's an Earth saying. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. It means you should adapt to the culture you find yourself in. You know, to be agreeable. To get along."

"Vulcans do not try to get along, as you say."

Crossing her arms, Amanda said, "Exactly! That's why you hired me, remember? You need help getting along. Sometimes you have to bend."

"But discarding Vulcan tradition—"

"Is sometimes the most efficient thing to do, right? Or the most logical. You can't be a diplomat if you aren't willing to compromise."

She was looking at him so closely that he was unable to look away. In this light her eyes were the color of the coffee she insisted he try once. The lock of hair she had tidied behind her ear fell forward as she leaned closer.

"Well?" she said, and with a start he realized that she was waiting for a response.

"Your logic is commendable," he said, raising one eyebrow.

She laughed again, lightly.

"I'll take that as permission to edit the manual," she said, sliding her chair so that she was directly behind her desk. "Let's see, I'm going to start by suggesting that every embassy worker take a human to lunch. They can talk about anything they want to—but they have to talk. Building social contacts—that's important, too. I'm going to start by taking Tirek to this little vegetarian diner I found near the waterfront—"

She glanced down at her keyboard and raised her hands to begin typing.

"Perhaps," Sarek said, and she paused and looked up, "you and I should discuss your proposed changes first. Over lunch, if you prefer."

"Lunch? With you?"

She frowned slightly and pursed her lips. Disapproval? Surprise?

"To test your premise," Sarek said, "that eating and socializing are more efficient when done together."

For a moment she gave him another unreadable look—or more than one, her eyes narrowing and widening in turn, almost like markers of her unspoken thoughts. That same intake of her breath that usually signaled an unpleasant revelation caught him off guard.

"I don't know," she said. "I hope you don't mind my being honest—"

Instantly he was wary. "Please," he said, feeling his heart beating harder in his side.

"But you aren't the easiest person to talk to."

This was unexpected. For the past two months—since he had set up a desk in one corner as her work space—he had spoken to her frequently and often at length.

"I mean, like today," she continued. "The whole time I've been trying to talk to you, you've been looking at your computer. I'm not even sure you knew I was in the room."

For a moment, Sarek was so astonished that he didn't move. That she was completely unaware of the level of his…distraction…the way her every sound and motion garnered his attention, was a relief.

On the other hand, she was looking for some level of attention.

"Ms. Grayson," he said, "if I have seemed inattentive, it is because my skills in conversing with humans are lacking."

"I shouldn't have said anything," she said, suddenly sounding tentative, her cheeks flushed with what he had come to recognize as embarrassment.

"If you had not," Sarek said, trying to sound agreeable, "I would not be able to improve. All the more reason to join me for lunch."

"For a tutorial?" she said, looking up at last, and he nodded.

"A lesson in how to be a Roman," he said.

"It won't be easy," Amanda said. She rose from her seat.

She wasn't smiling but something in the tone of her voice was light and playful. Sarek felt his earlier unease waft away.

"Indeed," he said, standing up and waiting for her to cross the space between them.

Shaking her head and looking down, she said, "See, on Earth we have another saying about Romans. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Meaning my instruction may require more than one lunch?"

Smiling at last, she took a step forward and said, "Your logic is commendable."

X X

Sybok stifles a cough as the Altoran cruiser descends slowly, stirring up the gray dust that covers everything on this planet. Every morning the settlers wipe down their cooking dishes and shake out their bedding, but by nightfall the fine dust settles again, leaving a grainy film that makes staying clean a challenge.

Just one more thing he won't miss.

When the cruiser turns off its engine at last, Sybok takes a step forward and raises his arm, a signal to the other members of the Assembly to join him.

Like Sybok, they are dressed in the long cloaks and headgear typical of desert dwellers. Hidden underneath their robes are whatever weapons they have been able to cadge together—more short daggers and reaping tools than actual projectile-firing weapons. No one owns a working phaser or a disruptor.

Sybok carries an Andorian ushaan-tor, a wicked-looking ice pick he had bartered two kilos of grain for several seasons ago. As the door of the cruiser opens, he lets the ushaan-tor swing in his hand, the heft and sway of it offering a measure of comfort.

The first trader to emerge is someone Sybok does not recognize, but his heart falls when he sees Arnissakrea behind the stranger.

Tall and willowy, the Altorans are translucent-skinned humanoids. Watching them is fascinating—their muscles in constant motion, the visible organs pumping and twitching and keeping the light pink lubricating fluid flowing through their bodies. Normally Sybok finds them interesting company. And normally he would have welcomed time spent talking with Arnissakrea.

Not today.

Arnissakrea looks around and lifts his limbs in a gesture of greeting as Sybok walks forward.

"Friend Sybok!" the alien calls in a voice that sounds like high-pitched keening. "How has the harvest been? We have supplies to trade."

At his back Sybok hears the shuffle of feet, the rustle of cloaks, as the Assembly members get ready. Glancing around, he finds Raska'ot's face in the crowd.

"Remember," Sybok says sotto voce, "no violence."

Raska'ot says nothing.

"Friend Sybok!" Arnissakrea calls again, and Sybok turns around.

"I require your ship," he says without preamble. Better to state at once his intentions.

The Altoran traders—five of them including Arnissakrea—react in obvious alarm, their arms moving rapidly as they spin around and head back to the cruiser's open hatch.

"Stop!"

Sybok's voice carries across the distance. The Altorans freeze in place.

"We do not want to harm you," he says, as much for the Assembly members as for the Altorans. "You will remain here. A Stacian cargo vessel is due here in a few days. You can get transport back home with them."

"Why are you doing this?"

That from Arnissakrea, who holds out his hands in an obvious gesture of supplication.

"It is necessary," Sybok says. "When we have arrived at our destination, we will see that your ship is returned to you."

"If you desire transport, we can take you," another Altoran says. "You do not have to take our ship and strand us here."

"No!" Raska'ot calls out. "They cannot be trusted!"

"Please!" Arnissakrea says. "If you take our ship, you will be criminals, hunted and despised. If it is transport you want, trade for it instead. We have never been unfair with you."

It is playing out just as Sybok has imagined it would—the desperate bargaining, the mounting pressure to act decisively. With a sigh, he says, "Our crops have failed. We have nothing to barter."

Resignation and regret crease his brow. Freeing the ushaan-tor from his sleeve, he moves toward the cruiser.

"When we arrive at your destination," Arnissakrea says, his anxiety making his voice shrill, "you can arrange for adequate compensation. Surely you know someone there who can pay for your passage!"

It's true, Sybok thinks. Most of the V'tosh ka'tur still have family on Vulcan. Would they be willing to help settle a debt?

Would Sarek? He isn't sure. Amanda, on the other hand, has never been shy about wanting him to return.

He pauses, weighing the possibilities.

"I will consider it," he says at last. A murmur, low and dark, travels through the Assembly.

Seeming to sense the precariousness of the situation, Arnissakrea unlatches a pocket around his waist and pulls out a digital padd.

"How far is it you must travel?" Arnissakrea says, his breath rapid and shallow. Sybok feels another wave of emotion—pity this time, and empathy in the face of the Altoran's fear.

Moving close enough to take the padd, Sybok hears footsteps behind him—the Assembly ready if he needs them.

"Here are the coordinates," he says, handing the padd back to Arnissakrea. "Vulcan, though your people may have another name for it."

The alien's translucent eyes tilt around and down to the padd. When he looks up, Sybok feels the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle.

"We can't go there," Arnissakrea says. "There's a warning beacon around this area."

He holds up the padd and circles one section with a thin finger.

"He's lying," Raska'ot says at his shoulder.

"No! See! It's marked."

Arnissakrea offers to hand the padd to Sybok.

"Why is it marked? What does this say?"

Pulling back his hand, Arnissakrea says, "There's a singularity here. If we get too close, we'll be caught in its gravity well."

"That's impossible," Sybok says.

"I told you," Raska'ot says, "he's lying. He's trying to trick us."

"No!" Arnissakrea says.

One of the other Altorans breaks away and sprints toward the cruiser hatch. As Arnissakrea gives a warning shout, Sybok sees a stone-tipped javelin flying through the air and hears the piercing cry as it hits the back of the running Altoran.

In a mad rush the young Assembly members hurry forward, knocking the other Altorans to the ground.

"No!" Sybok shouts, but the rising blood lust of the Rihannsu and V'tosh ka'tur is too powerful, carrying them headfirst in a frenzied wave.

The sickening crunch of rock on bone as someone—Raska'ot perhaps—raises his hand and lets it fall against Arnissakrea's head—Sybok hears it and feels the pain as his own.

The alien hitting the ground, pink liquid oozing from an open wound, his soulful eyes looking back as Sybok offers a silent apology—this, too, is an image that haunts him after the rushed take-off, after adjusting to the unfamiliar thrum of the engines and the smell and chill of the ship, after presiding over the quarrels about quarters as the Assembly spreads out through the cargo bay and makes places for themselves.

"They were lying," Raska'ot says later as he checks the coordinates on the navicomputer. "It has to be there."

But when he finally closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind of the events of the day, Sybok isn't sure.

And more troubling is what he is sure about—that the violence that spiraled so quickly out of control, that felt like a necessary adaptation to an unpredictable situation, is only the beginning.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reads, and Chocolate-Candy-Thanks to everyone who takes the time and trouble to leave a review! Thanks, too, to StarTrekFanWriter for giving it a look first. She's winding down a terrific story, "Blue," over in the Thor fandom.