The Tides Of Vulcan

by Baroness Emma

There is a tide in the affairs of Vulcans, which taken at the Fire, leads on to fortune.

11. Chapter Ten

"As soon as you think you understand a woman, check yourself into the hospital, because you've clearly gone crazy."

- Dr. Leonard McCoy

---

Chapter Ten

He came up behind her, circling his arms around her waist and slipping his hands beneath her loose fitting tunic. Gently, he caressed the soft rise of her stomach. Images of long ago nights spent alone in the Tar'hana highlands fleeted through his mind. He leaned backwards, carrying her with him, resting the full curves of her body on his as he lay down. He did not speak, but raised one of his arms, and pointed to the stars, tracing new patterns into the diamond-studded blackness. His other hand still rested upon the skin of her belly, and through his fingertips he could hear her wonder, and her curiosity. She twisted, attempting to turn over, trying to see his face. . .

The dream broke suddenly, as it always did, leaving him cold, disoriented, and more unwilling than usual to leave the warmth of a comfortable bed.

He reached out groggily, poking blindly at the AC controls, trying to raise the already sweltering temperature in the room. Strange how the tiny draft from under the door always managed to find its way under the covers and right down his spine.

He was grateful for Pike's hospitality, but the man kept his house "comfortable" at positively arctic temperatures.

Well. That was probably an exaggeration.

Spock sighed and gave up, heaving his almost ludicrously massive pile of blankets over his head again.

It seemed like his life was closing in on him.

Two years. It had been over two years here on this chilly, damp, unrelentingly Human planet, and still the closest things he had to friends were an aging Captain who wanted one more day in the sun before turning a glittering new flagship over to the next generation; and a fragile, emotionally uncertain, very Human woman who had just left him so she could study plants on Omicron Ceti III.

Plants. . . I am less interesting than plants. . .

He knew he was being childishly petulant.

But . . . what else was there to do when there was still so much of T'Pring rattling around in his mind? It was so. . . unfair. . . how easily this unwanted bond could dominate his subconscious, and how difficult it had been - and how difficult it was going to continue to be - for him to find any sort of possible replacement. He ran his fingertips across his eyelids and sighed, trying to shake free of that still lingering presence of. . . of. . . instability. Her direct presence was finally gone, but emotions that were not his own, and thoughts with which he did not agree still swirled towards him through the bond. With a great effort he closed and locked his mind, as he had done so often before. However, the effort did little to restore his inner peace. The pillow, all the blankets, and indeed the whole room smelled like her, and so did he. Her hormonal transference was still seeping from him, like sap from a torn flower stalk, or blood from a beast newly dead.

He huffed, disgusted with himself. There was no reason to be so morbid.

Suddenly, he gave it up, and flung himself out of the bed. He almost ran to the shower stall, tearing off the nightclothes that still carried her pheromones. As he stepped underneath the pleasingly abundant and unrestricted spray of steaming water, he found himself worrying. For the past two years, each of her Times had been followed by increasing residual effects for him. Two times previously, he had even had to go back into her dreams when he had thought it all safely over - she had slipped back into the Shadowlands, and he had been obligated to help her.

Her sudden and unexpected need had washed through the bond, and he had fallen asleep in the middle of taking his midterm exam for Advanced Warp Theory. Her Time had hit him while he had been awake before, but usually it merely made his mental processes slow, and prompted him to meditate and sleep for far longer periods of time than usual. But that time he had plummeted so deeply into sleep that the on-site Starfleet attending doctor had been forced to make an emergency call to Healer T'Shah - just to wake him up. She had slapped him across the face hard enough to call him out of the Shadowlands for a while.

Then, ignoring the shocked Humans that had gathered around them, she had advised him to finish this exam today, but to link into the video stream of the lectures he must attend for the next week, and do his work primarily from home.

Spock had nodded, and returned to his exam for once thoroughly grateful for his rote-learning abilities. Certainly his mind just then had not been on composing a 5000 word essay on possible new applications for the trans-dimensional interferometric constants, not at all.

He had spent a full fifty-two percent of the next week in crushingly unrefreshing slumber, fighting for T'Pring's life, and desperate for his own sanity into the bargain.

As usual, he had been directly present in her dreams only when he was also asleep, but the deep need of her psionic link to him during such an extended Time had meant that a large majority of his subconscious was constantly occupied with her, no matter if he was awake or asleep, and he did not dream any dreams that were solely his own so long as she needed him.

That week had nearly driven him mad.

Eventually they had separated again, both of them whole, and sane, but he had never known what true exhaustion was until that moment. He had barely managed to drag his presence from her finally soothed katra, only just conscious of himself enough to shut the bond, and then had collapsed into sleep that was at last fully his own.

He had smelled her on his skin for a full month afterwards.

He had never hated her until then. After their first dream-encounter over five years ago, he had never felt more than an interest, or some vague apprehension towards her, but then. . . when she had refused to leave his system, when her scent clung to him as though she had become part of him somehow, as if she owned him. . . only then had he found it in his heart to hate the woman, not merely the situation they both were in.

And he was worried.

Had they had waited too long? Had the betrothal bond moved too close to the marriage place on their katras without them noticing? Had the one time they had fully joined meant more than either of them had thought? Only a trained Elder could tell them, and he readily admitted he was frightened of what might possibly be found if he submitted to a Healer's mind-meld. T'hy'la bonds were made and broken all the time - practically any third-year c'thia trained Vulcan could perform a dissolution of a t'hy'la bond - but a full marriage bond? True divorce was rare, and had been throughout their history. It often resulted in half-broken bonds with trailing ends that would latch on to unsuspecting strangers randomly; or it could cause a ragged-edged mental scarring which developed into violent schizophrenia; other forms of emotional damage were common too; and it could even lead to, most horribly, an incurable and permanent type of plak-tau.

To be in the Fires forever. . .

No, that was wrong. It would not, in practice, actually last forever. . .

He thought, perhaps, that the Human concept of Hell was far more accurate than most Vulcans would care to admit.

He knew - for all the statistics showed it - after full marriage bonds were severed, less than a year later, there was a better than fifty-percent chance that the death of either or both of the parties involved would result. This was true regardless of whether either of them had been re-bonded or not - and more often than not, it was a death that had been achieved by their own hands.

Not entirely a surprise.

And his personal risks only went up from there. He had no one to take up the bond, even if it was still a t'hy'la bond, and if it was cleanly severed. There was his own Time to be considered. True, he might have been spared it, but there was no guarantee. Until he found someone, T'Pring was necessary. And as far as he knew, she had not found anyone else either, therefore he was also necessary. Legally and logically, there was no recourse for them, regardless of their true wants.

He sighed, perplexed and afraid. Would they - could they ever successfully separate, fully and completely?

He turned the water to the highest heat setting that was still safe. He was determined to remove her scent from himself this time, to sweat it out if necessary.

He had, paradoxically, felt closer to her ever since he had gone away.

Nearly fourteen years of utter silence through the bond, and only during the past two years, when he was lightyears away from her, did it. . . No. She. . . call to him. He could even yet feel the echoes of her voice in his mind, a far stronger presence than she had ever been before he had left Vulcan.

Sa-kugalsu. . . ?

The faint whisper tapped at the edge of his mind.

He ignored it.

Sa-kugalsu. . . ?

The whisper grew into a light pleading call, deceptively sweet and pleasant. He leaned his forehead against the cool plastic of the shower wall, letting the beat of the hot water send him into a light trance. He added another layer to the bond-shield, forcefully blocking out the call.

It whispered again, fainter this time, and then mercifully retreated.

He always felt such wanting from her now, particularly after her Time, but it was a grasping, cloying want, too sweet, like the sap of the mh'gere tree, and too ethereal, too haunting, crouching just beyond the reach of his mental shields, beckoning alluringly to him, baiting him with succulent promises, but obviously false, as if she was a predator and he was prey. Humans would call it a "siren's song", but it was, in fact, a uniquely and obsessively Vulcan phenomenon. Such things still lived in most bonds, he believed, but usually only as a remnant, a warning to both parties about their race's horrifically barbarous past. Most couples could control the reaction - and wished to do so. For T'Pring and himself, in contrast, it was an awful imposition, uncontrollable, dreadfully distracting, and unstable.

The bond had turned from what it ought to have been - a living, growing watercourse of personality - into a capricious, insinuating, thing, dead but for the untenable emotions that still plagued it.

Even so, he could scarcely believe he had come to the point of hating her for it. . . but he had.

He admitted to himself that he had far preferred her silence.

He shook his head, spraying drops of water from his sopping hair. The steam and hot water had brought the smell of her more strongly to his nostrils. Not for the first time he found he wished that he had never fully experienced her scent covering him - every time he smelled her now, even when it was just the edges of her through the hormonal transference, it triggered something, deep in his katra, that was altogether best forgotten. He reached for the tangerine scented soap Pike seemed to favor, wishing he had thought to bring the th'laaxk'sa infused sha'amii-thas soap that T'Shah made especially for Vulcans who lived on Earth. Only her special herbal formulas seemed to be able to fully dispel any scent from his skin that he happened to dislike. But, it was back at Hill House. He had left so suddenly last week, he had neglected to pack several necessities.

An entirely different wave of misery rose up in him.

For all too brief a time, T'Pring had made him forget. . .

Leila. . .

There was a gap in his mind where she used to be.

He had never seriously considered Leila a possible mate, but he had found her a pleasant and beneficial comrade. They had bonded suddenly - one day, her mind had spontaneously initiated a t'hy'la link when she had impulsively come to sit near him - so that he had felt justified in forming a functional connection with her. It had been so instantaneous, and so natural. He did not understand it, but he welcomed it. A real friendship.

For a few months, they had conducted the experiment. She had occupied the seat next to him that many had coveted, but had been spurned for their troubles, and he had someone to share things with, and someone who cared. Not someone who was only there for the mountain-shattering problems and times of crisis, but someone who wanted to learn his little quirks, like how he would sit when studying; how he preferred his tea; how his mind often wandered when he was nervous about saying the wrong thing; and could understand how he could never, not in a thousand years, admit that the possibility of saying the wrong thing ever made him nervous, but could reassure him about it anyway.

He had not even thought about her as a choice-mate. It went quite beyond the fact that with T'Pring still living in his mind, he had very little left to give to an emotional Human woman who did not, and could not understand his reserve; but he also found himself baffled as to how one even went about finding choice-mates. How could he find someone else when his mind was so easily taken over by thoughts of T'Pring? Surely no Vulcan woman on Earth would consider a relationship with him while he was still bonded, and he could not be unbonded until he had found someone.

It was a vicious circle, complicated further by the fact that, when he was being fully honest, he found himself far more physically and mentally comfortable with unmarried Human women than he ever had been with available Vulcan women. Ever since Leila had given him a taste of how a normal Human non-familial relationship worked, he found himself drawn to the Human race far more than his own.

He kept having to remind himself that he was half-Human, and that this inclination was not a betrayal.

But Leila had shown him that. He had never had to remind himself of his heritage when they were together.

She had been a friend, and a true one.

No more than that.

But no less, either. For the first time he had understood why his mother always insisted he try to make friends. They were essential to a Human's mental well-being. He saw that now. They were one of many Human expressions of Love, and quite necessary. Not since I-Chaya had he experienced anything like it, only this time a beautifully intelligent sentient mind had desired to simply be near him.

It had been glorious.

And then. . . then, he had seen her eyes change. One day, she had been his faithful companion, sitting next to him, demanding nothing, and the next her eyes had held the same strange pain within them that he had seen in T'Pring's the day he had told her she was free to choose the mate that suited her.

At that moment, he knew he must not let the relationship continue. He must not be a burden on Leila like he and T'Pring were upon each other. He could not let Leila sting his heart like T'Pring still could. Leila must never be hated. Things must not progress to that point. Leila was Human - she could never bear the consequences of a dysfunctional Vulcan bond. Or at least she ought not, and she would not, if he could do anything about it.

He had brooded for a whole week, wondering how he could possibly break the connection to her. He had never fully explained the t'hy'la bond they shared; she did not truly know what it meant, or how much he did not wish it to end. Most importantly, she did not know how painful such a severing would be. Not just for him, but for her. How could he hurt her so? To let the bond continue was impossible, but to abandon her without warning. . .

And then one morning she had told him she was leaving.

He had tried not to let his relief show.

He was not entirely sure he had succeeded.

That night, he had severed the bond, taking as much of the burden of the experience on himself as was possible. Very likely she had felt nothing when he had finally clipped the slender golden thread between them, or if she had, she had not known what it meant. It had been a young bond, still soft, neither deeply placed nor intimately rooted. It had only existed for a few months.

Removing it had still hurt.

The next afternoon, he had seen her off, watching her features sparkle with unshed tears, then dissolve under the force of the transporter beam.

He hoped that one day she would learn to be happy without him.

And he hoped. . . one day. . . to forget her. Somehow.

To forget, to stow the pain away in nacre and not remember until time had lapped the memory into pearl. . . such was a Human gift, and one he had apparently not been granted.

A term his mother sometimes used had run through his mind. But indulging in "a good cry" would have been most unwise.

He had gone home to Hill House, impulsively drifting off to sleep on the couch in the living area. . . and then, while he wandered deep within the somber, yet healing oasis of his own dreams, T'Pring had drawn his mind away, demanding the rescue he could not refuse.

Hours later, he had awakened, a short respite from the cycle of twisted, hyperkinetic, grotesque and overbearingly erotic dreams her Times had become, and the walls of Hill House had suddenly become too empty to hold his grief, his loneliness, and growing despair.

Having just lost Leila, and then being once again burdened with T'Pring's instability, there, in a house that reminded him of his otherness and his deficiencies as a son - it was entirely too much.

He had messaged Pike, imploring him for sanctuary. Of course Chris had said yes, even knowing as little as he did about Spock's periodic unexplained illnesses, and he had been packed and on his hoverbike almost before Pike had cut the connection. Chris had not asked any questions either, not even when Spock had begun sleeping erratically, not going in to his classes, but logging into lectures from his room instead, and making requests that could only seem to Chris to be the height of eccentricity.

Embarrassment washed over him as he remembered all his odd and insistent requests - for pillows, for extra blankets, for books, PADDs, music, incense, tea, for changes to the ambient temperature, for extremely precisely prepared food and drink during the intermittent but intense nausea the link to T'Pring could induce, and for hot salt water when the nausea had overwhelmed him and he needed to rinse his mouth. Furthermore, he had wept at odd times and cried out in disgust or horror or. . . other reasons. . . at ungodly hours of the night. But Chris had dealt with every request, every happening, with remarkable dignity, silent compassion, and without so much as a grunt of disapproval.

Chris had even gone to T'Shah's shop near the city's Vulcan Quarter, and had bought Spock the disconcertingly varied list of things he had forgotten at Hill House. She had been out of the special soap, promising to make more by the end of the week, but Chris had apparently also had a long talk to her, about him. He was uncertain how he felt about T'Shah teaching Pike the traditional Vulcan Flame Tea ceremony, but he did admit that a welcome consequence was that Chris's preparation of the tea had improved exponentially over the past several days. He was grateful for this, given that the drink was one of the few things which could settle his stomach during the tumult of T'Pring's Times.

He stepped out of the shower, wrapping up securely in one of the huge plush towels Chris had provided. There were many things upon which he and Chris did not agree, but an acceptable level of quality in regards to towels was not one of them.

For the first time in a week, he felt steady enough to shave. Slowly. Methodically. And the kit Pike had provided was over and above acceptable.

He was certain that Chris did not know what a godsend this unstinting hospitality had been. . . looking at the razor in his hand, Spock was almost afraid of how close he had come to insanity this time around too. As if very grave uncertainty about his own Time, coupled with the ever-present fear of insanity and death during it was not enough.

If it had not been for Christopher Pike. . .

He dared not finish the thought.

He wiped his face and contemplated his future. He was still alive, therefore, the matter of where he was now to live must be considered.

He had many options.

First, he could remain at Hill House. It was ideal, save that it was now filled with memories. Memories that reminded him far too much of two women, so different from each other, but with the same pain in their eyes. . . pain that he had been involved in causing.

Next, he could search for an apartment to rent. Problematic, since this would mean an extra expenditure that was almost entirely unjustified - an illogical waste of funds.

Then, he could live in his rooms at the Vulcan Embassy. He sighed, and for a moment buried his head in his hands. He had been to the Embassy many times over the past two years, of course, for reasons ranging from his fourth-year c'thia training that had necessitated using some of the Embassy's facilities, to the three times Amanda had visited Earth in that time, and had met him there. The Embassy was a large part of his life, and no doubt would continue to be so.

But. . .

Living there was. . . almost unthinkable. Hill House now had an overbearing emotional burden upon it, to be sure, but even that paled in comparison to the one he would face at the Embassy. Besides, it was much farther from the Academy's Headquarters than was optimal.

No. Not the Embassy.

Another option - he could ask T'Shah for help and accommodation. Difficult, given that they both led very different lives. Additionally, she would no doubt question why he desired to move his permanent residence, and that was a discussion he did not yet feel capable of enduring. T'Shah was his m'aih'nahr - he could not logically deny her the full story, and that was something he was not yet ready to tell.

He could also remain here with Pike. Not indefinitely, but for a while.

And, finally, he could request an Academy dorm room. He might even be able to qualify for a private suite, given that he held the rank of Lieutenant.

He wandered back into the bedroom, meaning to get fresh clothes and go downstairs to prepare the first real meal he would be able to stomach in nearly a week.

As he rummaged among his belongings, he looked over at the bed, not bothering to restrain his distaste. The smell of her Time still permeated the room. His insides clenched with the now familiar need to retch. He would not sleep in that bed again. Could not.

Somehow, that made up his mind. He would go, now, and ask Chris if he could aid him in procuring housing among the Academy dorms.

Two years of false independence was enough.

It was high time he joined Starfleet.

---

"Mack!" Pike grinned as he opened the door, "What brings you here? Come in, come in - want a drink?"

Admiral James Komack slipped into the house with a much lighter step than most people would credit him. He answered none of Chris's questions, instead choosing to fend off Mina's loving attacks.

Mina, Chris's border collie, had come into the room as soon as she had heard Mack's hovercar, and had leaped at him with a torrent of happy barking the second she had scented him at the door. She was an intelligent and loyal little thing, Chris mused, and genuinely loved him, but she was also hopelessly infatuated with the Admiral. Whenever Mack was around, she would either pester him with her toys until he threw them for her, or give him her saddest looks and most entreating whines until he ponied up with a treat or a pat on the head.

She's just lucky this crush seems to go both ways. . .

Chris highly suspected that Mack's habit of carrying packets of cheese crackers everywhere with him was not the older Admiral succumbing to a snacking addiction, as was rumored around campus, but was, in fact, security for any unexpected meetings with Mina. He smiled as Mack gave her one of them now, scratching her behind the ears as she ate it.

Neither of them minded her sweet doggish ways, but she often got underfoot when they moved about, so they quickly went to sit on the stools near the high kitchen counter. Mack snapped his fingers at her, and she settled down between the legs of the stools, content for the moment.

"Scotch and soda?" Chris asked, trying again.

"Gods, yes," said Mack, leaning on the bar, and Chris jumped up to comply. "How's your house-guest?" He inclined his head to indicate upstairs, where he knew Spock had been living for almost a week now.

"Still sleeping, I think," Chris said, as he poured for both of them.

"Good."

"Why?"

Mack looked grave as he took his drink. "Because, this is about the kid."

Chris sighed, sipped his drink, leaned on the bar, and tried not to look too defensive. Poor guy can't even be sick in peace. . . "All right - let's get on with it," he said, a little too sharply.

Mack grimaced a little, "Now, don't you start. I feel the same way, but this is business."

"Should we stay here, then?" Chris gestured at his office door down the hall, "You want to move in there? Vulcan hearing is uncannily sharp. . ." he pointed upstairs, suddenly paranoid, even though Spock had yet to come downstairs at this time of day, poor sick kid. . .

"Nah," Mack waved his worries away, "I'm not going to say anything that he wouldn't hear eventually."

"Okay?" said Chris, now really worried.

Mack sighed. "High Command wants you to make him your first officer when you get the Enterprise."

"That's it?" he frowned, "Why do they want that? He hasn't even graduated yet - though I understand why they'd want me to pick him over some other cadets of his year. . ."

Mack shook his head. "They want him kept happy."

"Happy? I don't know if he's ever been happy. . ."

"Fine then - content, pleased, at ease, calm, insouciant, zen, tickled pink - whatever, just keep him that way, okay?"

Chris laughed, "Well, Admiral, I'm impressed. . . with your vocabulary if nothing else. . . and in Spock's case it would be "tickled green" - if he can be tickled, which I doubt."

"The point is, that kid is more important than he realizes. Keep him happy, got it?"

His lip twisted with distaste, "Don't you think "that kid" has been used enough? He was born into political disputes, and now, just when he's starting to be his own person, we're going to try to "keep him" for our own purposes? Don't you think that's just a little Machiavellian? He did choose to be here, Mack."

"Yes, he did," the Admiral nodded, "that's the point."

"So, what makes you think he'd ever change his mind?"

"Nothing."

"So. . ."

"Look," Mack sighed, "the brass don't understand Spock like you do - I don't think anyone does. They want to make sure the good thing they've got going keeps on going."

Chris barked a laugh. "In almost no other way does Spock resemble a pink, drum-playing rabbit, but he is exactly the type to "keep on going", as you put it."

"Right. And the brass want to make sure of that."

"Somehow this is not exactly comforting me, Mack."

He could practically hear the eye roll the Admiral gave, "Look, all I know is, when it comes down to brass tacks, I chose the Federation and Starfleet over anything else, you chose them over anything else, High Command chose them over everything else - " Komack put his finger on the bar, tapping to emphasize each of his next words, "And. So. Did. That. Kid." Mack leaned back and shook his head. "He's our best ally and he doesn't even know it. Do you know how much his presence here has improved both our non-Human enrollment and the Council's interplanetary approval rating?"

Chris knew he looked highly unimpressed at this, but it served Mack right. They had chosen Starfleet. That meant they were explorers, scientists, educators, diplomats, negotiators and leaders - sometimes they were heroes and occasionally they were warriors - but they were not politicians. Ambassadors perhaps. . . but not narrow minded "party liners" who only wanted to keep their own little bit of power and influence, regardless of the bigger picture. . .

Weren't they?

Mack crossed his arms, apparently deciding to just spell out the High Command's reasoning. "A Vulcan chose Starfleet, Chris. Chose it. Over the VSA, no less. That has impressed everyone, even Andoria, and because Andoria was impressed, Orion has finally, finally begun trying to "look good in comparison" - at the very least. Did you know they've started working on an exchange student plan, complete with a hormonal blocking regimen for both sets of prospective cadets? Orion is doing this. Of its own free will. And submitting all plans to us for input before implementation." He shrugged, disbelievingly, "Just a little bit more of this and we might actually be able to start doing something about all the piracy and smuggling in this sector. Do you know what that would mean to us all? The whole Federation would benefit, that's what that would mean. If we can get some laws in place that work in this sector, then we can get laws in place that work in other sectors. Just you watch - this has the potential to become a domino effect of the best kind. And all because one kid chose to come here to go to school." He took a quick sip of his drink, "So now it's your job to keep him here, and make sure he's satisfied with his job, you got that? Captain?"

"Okay, okay, Mack, I get it," he ran his fingers across his nose in frustration, "But what do you want me to do other than what I've already done?"

"Just what I've said. Make him your First Officer. Get him on the Enterprise."

"I see. So I just use blatant favoritism, and declare him my Number One? I can't do that, Mack, and you know it. If he earns the position, fine, but - "

Mack was laughing, "Aha-ha! Chris, can you seriously see Spock not qualifying to be your first officer? Honestly. There's no need to make it official yet, but even I know he was going to make the short list anyway. You clearly think of the boy as a son, and you've already amply proved you can live in the same limited area without killing each other. Who else would you pick, hmm?"

Pike sighed. "Well, what about Gerda? She was my first officer on the Powhatan, and again on the Yorktown - she's a damn fine officer, with lots of experience. That comes in handy y'know, especially when you're on the frontier like we'll be with the Enterprise. What makes you think I wouldn't choose her again?"

"The fact that Captain Reinhart is on a classified mission to the Antedean sector?" Mack half-mumbled with the kind of voice that did not have to explain that he shouldn't be telling him this, and simultaneously demanded his secrecy.

"Oh, Captain, eh? I hadn't heard." Chris grinned, wordlessly promising not to say anything, "Good for her. But the Antedean sector is a mess - "

"Yes, a mess that is populated by mostly matriarchal races."

"Ah. I see." Chris smirked a little, "When favoritism is inapplicable, try sexism. . ."

Mack look slightly ashamed, "Yes, well. Occasionally the ends can justify the means."

"You really believe that?"

"Sure. Plenty of right things have been done for the wrong reasons - and plenty of wrong things have been done for the right reasons, come to that. If High Command told Spock that B.A.S.E. jumping off El Capitan would lead to peace with the Klingons, don't you think he'd at least think abou-"

"A most illogical suggestion, Admiral," said Spock, walking into the room, almost. . . almost laughing, "However, I will take it under advisement."

---

If Spock had possessed a Human's sense of the absurd, he most likely would have termed the moments that followed his entrance as "picture perfect". Komack, having paused with his mouth open, neglected to shut it again, and Chris literally fell off the high stool he had been sitting on, landing on his feet, thankfully, but in the process had unfortunately managed to kick Mina's water bowl, sending it skittering across the stone tile floor to smash to bits against the refrigeration unit. Then Komack's comm. started beeping insistently, and Mina began barking at it. As the Admiral scrambled to answer it, the button on his cuff got caught for a second on the raised edge of the countertop, and in jerking it free, he twisted, tripped on Mina, and fell backwards onto the couch. Pike spoke sharply to Mina, much more sharply than he normally did, and so she ignored him, beginning to jump at the Admiral, snapping playfully, obviously misconstruing the ruckus as preparation for her nightly walk.

"SIT, Mina!" Pike roared, just before Komack finally managed to disentangle himself and answer his comm. A very few quiet words later, he strode into Pike's office to take the call, Mina following him, still hopeful.

Only then did Pike turn and look at him.

He had watched all this from the archway of the staircase, a distinctly Human desire to laugh playing about the corners of his mouth.

The look on Pike's face now did little to dispel the feeling.

"You. . . pointy-eared. . . gahhh!" Pike exclaimed, then apparently gave up, and moved towards the broom closet. "How much did you hear?"

He only raised an eyebrow, and met Chris's eyes.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's impolite to eavesdrop?" Pike growled as he rummaged in the small cupboard.

Spock adopted what he hoped was a fair, if slightly sarcastic, imitation of Komack's voice, "I'm not going to say anything that he wouldn't hear eventually," he said, his gaze unwavering.

Pike's lip twisted, "Damn, I'm sorry about all this, Spock."

"There is no offense where none is intended."

"Yeah well, in that case, you can hold the dustpan." Chris hefted the broom with one hand, the other hand clutching a small inclined tray and a little spherical robot. Spock took the dustpan and knelt, carefully avoiding the sharp ceramic fragments. Pike swept very carefully around the stasis unit, and under the ledges of the cupboards, letting Spock put the swept-up fragments of Mina's water bowl into the reclamator before he set the robotic floor sweeper in the center of the kitchen.

"We'd better stay out of there while it scans for anything I missed," said Chris, walking purposefully into the living area, "Come in here and I'll make that Flame Tea stuff you like so much."

His stomach twisted back into the knots he had managed to forget for a few minutes. Now would be an ideal moment to ask Chris for help with his new decision to move to the Academy dorms, yet somehow, he did not feel "up to it" just yet, as his mother would have said. He was. . . afraid.

Yes. I feel fear.

Interesting.

Now, why?

Perhaps it was a remnant of T'Pring's emotions in his mind. Regardless, the moment to begin a serious talk with Chris had passed.

"That would be much appreciated, Christopher," he said instead.

He settled on the couch, turning and watching as Chris filled the teacups and teapot with hot water from the tiny sink in the bar, and while they warmed, began to set up the rest of the tray with all the things necessary for the Vulcan Tea Ceremony. One large black clay bowl, white-glazed on its inside, in one corner, and five much smaller, red-glazed ones ranged in front. Several tins and bottles were next, and a long-handled spoon. Chris looked confused for an instant, then clicked his tongue and grabbed at the next bowl - the completely black, oblong, trough-like one - blithely flipped it in the air, caught it, and set it behind the five round bowls. . . all without a care in the world.

His insides squirmed involuntarily at the casualness with which Pike was taking the proceedings. Hot water right from the tap - bleached filter papers - replicated cream - iodized salt - sash-savas juice from concentrate. . . Not to mention playing with the tea-set. . . Only the yon-yekuhl, the kharas'lor crystals, and the tea set itself - all no doubt purchased from T'Shah - were anywhere close to being traditional. He was highly grateful to Chris for all he had done in the past week, but Spock found himself even more grateful at this moment that it was only himself Chris was performing the Tea Ceremony for, and not his father, or worse - T'Pau.

Pike lightly spun the medium-sized, red-glazed plate on his hand before placing it on the tray, simultaneously reaching over to the small replicator-kettle set into the wall, dialing up boiling water.

Even Chris's motions betrayed his Human unfamiliarity with the ritual. In fact, Spock mused, it was one of the most private and personal services that non-married Vulcans could perform for each other, second only to the Rite Of Handwashing. The latter was customarily only performed at a Water Ceremony, while the tea ritual could be enacted at any time. Both always signified an important, if not familial, relationship between the participants, to the point that, if they had been on Vulcan, any observer would probably be correct in assuming they had mind-melded, at the very least, or that one was about to formally adopt the other into their clan. In no circumstance was it to be taken lightly.

Spock admitted to himself that little in Vulcan culture ever was. . .

Chris was whistling as he filled the five small red-glazed bowls with the necessary ingredients, spooning each into the dishes with a lavish hand.

To be honest, he was surprised that T'Shah had condescended to teach Chris even the basic outline of this tradition - she must have been truly alarmed by his report of Spock's illness. . .

But. . . there must have been more to it that merely that. T'Shah knew that theris'yon-yekuhl was one of the only things he could stomach during his bondmate's Times, but in each previous instance, she had made a large jug of it for him to take home and drink, in whatever quantity he felt necessary. She had never felt obliged to perform the full tea ceremony for him, though she was one of the few who had an unequivocal right to do so.

What had she seen in Chris that had prompted her to reveal this tradition to someone so Human?

The replicator dinged. Christopher dumped the water out of both cups and the little teapot, then reached over to remove the kettle, placing it on the last empty space on the tray. Then it was a matter of moments for him to bring the whole thing over to the neik-pasu - which Chris most incongruously called a "coffee table", since it was far more likely to have snacks or papers upon it than anything resembling coffee.

Chris sat on his favorite low stool made from a highly polished round of knotty-pine, then lifted the kettle, ready to begin.

"First time you've actually watched me do this, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"Well, I apologize if I make any mistakes," Chris's face was rueful, "That doctor of yours said I was 'Clumsy, at best, but functional'." He barked a laugh, "Cheerful personage, she was."

Spock had so much to say to this that he could say nothing.

"Not that I can blame her, exactly. There I was, out of my head with worry over the kid puking his guts out in my guest bathroom, and I still thought that Vulcan Flame Tea was something that tweeny hipsters could buy at the corner store by the gallon bottle. . ."

"They can," Spock said, faintly, "but it is not the real thing."

"Clearly," Chris shook his head, obviously remembering Spock's first request for it. "That store-bought stuff didn't help you at all."

"No."

For some reason, Spock felt. . . on edge.

If only he would begin, and get it over.

"So, you'll forgive me if I do something. . . less than au fait, as it were?"

"Of course."

"No 'of course' about it with you Vulcans. . ." Chris mumbled, and finally, began.

He filled the tiny black-clay teapot with the boiling water, sprinkled the yon-yekuhl into it deftly enough, but put the lid on too quickly. The water had still showed clear against the white-glazed interior; it had only just begun to turn rust-red from the tea.

It would have been better to watch the color turn dark before lidding it.

Spock refrained from saying anything.

Then Chris took the two little teacups, placing one on each end of the oblong plate. There was room for a third cup between them.

So far, good.

Chris put a pinch of the sweet kharas'lor in each cup, and a careful two pinches of salt on the plate between them. One single-serving-size coffee filter went in each, bent and folded so they arched across the space between.

Then Chris placed the teapot inside the big bowl, and poured boiling water over it with an admirably careful hand, but he did not say the words normally said at this juncture. Spock supposed T'Shah had not told him.

It does not matter. . . yet.

Chris lifted the steaming pot cautiously, and poured the now brownish tea into the cups, sweeping back and forth across the filters so that a good amount of tea dripped in the middle, soaking and dissolving the salt.

Then, he lifted the filters away to the red plate, raised the lid of the teapot, and emptied the cups back into it. He set the cups correctly next to the saltbowl, not into it again. Then he spooned a few drops of sash-savas juice into the teapot, lidded it again, and put it back into the large bowl. He gave it another drenching with the boiling water, and correctly left it there for a minute. He put a dash of cream in each empty cup before once again carefully removing the teapot from its bath. He placed the pot in the very middle of the tray, lifted the lid again, and slowly poured the saltwater from the oblong bowl into the mixture.

Spock watched as the muddy reddish liquid reacted with the saline, and bloomed into the brilliant crimson-orange that gave the tea its name.

Pike stirred it. . . with the handle of the spoon.

Spock blinked, and said nothing.

Then Chris poured the finished tea into the waiting cups, quite properly offering the first one to Spock, but he did not know how to say the Benediction either. . .

The unglazed black-clay exterior of the cup shone where the steam had touched it, and where it was still wet from sitting in the saltbowl. The vibrant red tea glittered against its white-glazed inside.

Spock paused.

If Pike had been a Vulcan, his offering of this particular tea - and in this manner - could only be taken as Chris brazenly, arrogantly placing himself into Spock's clan and inner circle, an audacious act, almost to the point of deliberate insult. Even beyond that, if Spock was to accept it, it meant that he unequivocally welcomed the older man into his family, and not as an equal, but as a superior. If both of them drank it, it all but made Chris a member of Spock's clan - and of his father's generation.

Well, and what was wrong with that? Nothing, he admitted to himself, but Chris did not know the significance of what he was doing. . . and he must tell him.

His stomach knotted even tighter. Was it truly a last remnant of T'Pring's Time? Or was it a disinclination to have this conversation with Chris? Or. . .

It might be distinctly sickening mixture of them both, he was not sure.

He took the cup, and sipped.

It tasted different this time, unlike any of the great mugs of mere liquid he had drunk to settle his stomach.

This tasted smaller, more deliberate, yet stronger. . . more delicate and complex. . . more. . . haunting, and. . . true. . . like the ethereal emotion that Humans called. . .

Love. . .

Friendship is a type of love.

The thought had risen on its own. He had not had to remind himself.

And it is necessary. . .

For the first time in a long time - perhaps ever since he was an infant - he allowed himself to feel any kind of love without shame.

It is logical. . .

All at once a settled peace he had not known for more than a week wrapped around him. He could speak to Chris now.

"Captain?" he asked.

"Yes, Spock?"

"The Admiral was correct."

Christopher's brow furrowed, "Correc. . . what do you mean?"

"You have been as a father to me."

He said it simply, with his usual bland tone, but he was very sincere, and he knew Chris could read him well enough to see it.

The older man looked immeasurably abashed, and suddenly seemed overly interested in his tea.

"Yes. . . well. . ."

"You are unaware, I am sure, of the significance of the Tea Ceremony," he continued, pushing past Chris's embarrassment, "Given that you have made it for me only as a medicament, I doubt that T'Shah told you the full meaning, but by all the traditions, you are now in the place of my father."

Chris's eyes widened, but he said nothing. Perhaps he could not.

Spock raised his teacup in salute, "A'nirih'nahr k'fonn'es, I have accepted your service." He finished the small cup in one gulp, gesturing for Chris to do the same.

He did.

"Now, will you accept mine?"

Pike blinked, but nodded.

Spock leaned forward, and reset the tray so that he might start from the beginning. Then he strode quickly over to the bar, picked up two more coffee filters, and rinsed out the teapot and large bowl.

Then, as deftly as possible, he began the ceremony over again, the remembered sound of T'Pau's voice giving incredibly strict instructions echoing in his ears. He had never managed to do this particular ritual to her exacting standards. . .

And his father had never even asked him to try.

Chris watched him, mesmerized, apparently.

As he bathed the teapot during the first round, he said the traditional words - "Not by water alone is life made pure. Use fire well and peace will be yours." Of course, Chris didn't understand the ancient High Vulcan saying, but, oddly, he seemed to appreciate it nonetheless.

Slowly, the ingredients came together again, the bright red once more blossoming in the teapot, like a living thing, newly born.

He poured, and decided to say the Benediction in Standard. Chris deserved to understand it.

"We have differences. Together, may we become greater than the sum of both of us."

He offered the tea, now validating Chris's place as his superior with a far stronger and more personal gesture than Starfleet rank insignia could ever indicate.

Christopher accepted the cup with the good grace Spock had expected, but did not drink it right away, a strangely pensive look on his face. He inhaled, and paused before saying, "Mack wasn't right, you know."

"No?" For a brief moment, his stomach threatened to be ill again.

"No." Chris gave a short sigh, "the ends don't justify the means. Occasionally they might forgive the means, but justify? No."

Spock almost sighed with relief, and canted his head to one side, remembering what Pike had said about Gerda Reinhart. "Do you want me to be your First Officer?"

"Of course I do, Spock," he leaned back, never taking his eyes from his fresh cup of tea, "I just want you to earn it too, that's all."

"I intend to."

"And I'm sure you will."

"Then any talk of ends and means is irrelevant. We have our own ends, and we will use our own means."

"Logical," Pike said, with a smirk.

"Precisely."

"So. . ." said Chris, his smile evening out and becoming far more genuine, "it looks like you're pretty much assured to reach the rank of Commander, at the very least - and within the next six years too. . ."

"Indeed."

"That's almost unprecedented. . ."

Spock did not feel the need to repeat his agreement.

Suddenly Pike grinned, impishly, and flipped him his communicator, which Spock only barely managed to catch.

Yes, I am certainly still suffering the effects of T'Pring's blood-fever. . .

But Pike was talking - "Why don't you call up your girlfriend and take her out to dinner tonight - it's customary when a guy gets a promotion that he takes his girl out for a nice meal."

"But, I have not yet - "

"Doesn't matter. It's an excuse to get out of the house and spend money on your girlfriend, so take it."

"Leila was not my gir- "

"Sure sure. Just call her up and. . . wait - was?"

"She was here for a three-year Xenobotony course to receive special training for the mission to Omicron Ceti III. The timetable for which was moved up because of some unrest in the nearby sector of the Neutral Zone. She left six days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes ago."

Chis put down his tea. "So, you broke up?"

"Given the nature and projected length of her mission, we terminated our relationship prior to her departure, yes."

"Spock. . ." Chris sighed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was a matter of little consequence when compared to my. . . other. . . difficulties. . ."

"So, she wasn't the reason you've been ill?"

"No."

"Not even partially?"

"I did not say that."

"So she was a part of what you've been going through the past few days?"

"A small part, yes."

"But not the main reason?"

"Correct."

Pike picked up his tea again, and drank it quickly. "So, you gonna to tell me what has been going on with you? 'Cause it's been weird, to say the least. You just don't get sick. You don't! Not a single sniffle since I've known you. So now I'm worried about you."

Spock paused, unsure of how much to reveal.

"You were not aware that I have a recurrent problem approximately every six months?"

"I know you've looked a bit haggard once or twice a year. . ." Chris blinked, realizing, "Yeah, I guess it has been every six months or so. . . Maybe if I was one of your professors I'd have noticed the timing pattern - but it isn't a normal sort of "being sick" is it? Your medical record shows that you actually don't get sick. Not often. At all. And this wasn't a viral thing or a bacterial infection, or parasitic, or anything like that. I mean, you said as much yourself the first day - on the comm., when you asked if you could come here - that it was "completely noncommunicable". So what was it?"

Spock's mind raced. He had no recollection of saying that to Chris. The Blood Fever did often cause such minor lapses in memory, however, and it did sound like what he would have said.

But how to explain?

What would mother say?

He balanced his teacup very carefully on his knee. "In this case, Chris, I find that one of your customarily hyperbolic phrases is unexpectedly appropriate."

"Oh, and which one is that?"

"It is a 'crazy Vulcan thing'." He mimed quotation marks with his fingers in the air, as Chris often did.

Chis laughed. "Okay, fine, I won't pester you - but I still don't forgive you for not telling me you broke up with your girlfriend."

"Lelia was not - "

"Was she female?"

Spock blinked.

"Yes."

"Was she your friend?"

"I fail to see the purpose of this line of ques-"

"Just answer - was she or wasn't she?"

He sighed, very lightly, "Yes."

"Was she dating anyone else?"

"If I correctly understand the Terran concept of "dating", then. . . no. Not that I was aware of."

Chris nodded, with finality, "Then she was your girlfriend - whether you think so or not. Trust me. It's a 'crazy Human thing'."

He took that in, finding he had little to say in response, and fell back on what he had found to be the safest thing to say in a conversation with Humans.

"Indeed."

Chris smiled, suddenly eager about something, "So, that means - "

"Captain," he interrupted, determined to have the conversation he had originally intended, "I wish to request your aid in procuring a room among the Academy dormitories."

Chris stopped, clearly confused. "What? Why? I thought Hill House was was an "ideal situation" for you. In fact, two years ago I think I heard you use those very words."

"I did. It was true then. It is not now."

Pike looked incredulous, "Just because a girl left you?"

He held back a sigh, "No, not just for that reason. In fact, also for quite the opposite reason."

The captain's brow furrowed, "Wait. . . she left you - are you also saying that you left her?"

For a moment, T'Pring's face swam before his vision. "No. . . and yes."

Chris sighed, "You're confusing me Spock. . ."

He finished the second cup of tea, and began to clear the tray from the table, "Is my request confusing?"

"No. . . you're a Lieutenant and an astonishingly exemplary student. Not to mention that both sides of your family are as rich as wedding cake. You ought to be eligible for first-rate accommodations. But. . ."

"Please, Captain, do not inquire further. It is a private matter."

"Demmit Spock, I'm just trying to understand - "

"Well, here's a thing you don't see every day," said Komack, jovially, finally returning from Pike's office, "the future Captain of the Enterprise, and Starfleet's star pupil, arguing." He stood with his hands on his hips, amused.

"Christopher may have been arguing," Spock said, picking up the tea tray, and walking into the kitchen to finish cleaning it, "I, however, was not."

"No, and you never do," Pike growled, "It's incredibly frustrating."

"That is not my fault, Captain."

Chris shrugged off the comment, and turned to Komack.

"You were a long time in there. Where's Mina?"

"Asleep under your desk."

"Lazy girl. It must not have been a very exciting call."

"Yeah, well, Admiral Barnett is not exactly known for his electrifying personality. . ." Komack sat, or rather collapsed, onto the couch Spock had vacated.

Chris laughed, "Ain't that the understatement of the year."

"And now I've got a headache - Yo, Spock?"

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Does Chris's unacknowledged but admittedly harmless favoritism for all things Vulcan extend to g'teth-kh'ir? And I'm sure I'm mispronouncing that, sorry."

"It does, and in fact you are not - the popularity of Vulcan mocha has had the pleasant effect of bringing the proper name fully into the vernacular. Shall I prepare some?"

"You're a saint. . ."

"Me too Spock, if you wouldn't mind," said Chris, turning back to the Admiral with a question about a Federation affiliated star system near the Klingon Empire that had just begun manufacturing its own starships.

Spock did not comment on that, or upon Komack's exaggeration of him, instead tuning out their conversation, and focusing on his own need for nourishment. He dialed the replicator-kettle to steamed milk and set the g'teth-kh'ir grounds up to brew, then turned around and extracted a loaf of bread from the stasis unit. It was a large, sliced loaf of "Signature San Francisco Sourdough" - practically the only bread Pike bought when he was Earthside. It was acceptable. He put three large slices in the toaster, then turned back to the sink to finish rinsing and stacking the now clean tea set.

He had managed this, and to spread two pieces of his hot toast with his preferred condiments before the coffee-maker signaled that the mocha was ready. He quickly finished his preparations, then poured three mugs of the hot, light blue beverage, reasoning that there were worse things in this house that Chris might suggest that Spock drink - Chris had decidedly Human ideas about "getting over" emotionally charged events - but if he had this to "hold on to", as his father often did at ambassadorial functions, then offers of anything else might be forestalled.

He handed the other men their coffee, still ignoring their chatting, and settled himself at the end of the couch, meaning to stay out of the conversation, unobtrusive. He was very hungry. He absorbed himself in planning a simple stew from the ingredients he had noticed in Pike's refrigerator.

"Sourdough, cream cheese and mustard?" Komack sounded surprised when he noticed the plate on Spock's knee, and wrinkled his nose at the sight.

"I find the combination palatable, Admiral," he said, taking a bite.

"Hmph." Komack grunted. "Well, Humans do say "There's no accounting for taste." You got any sayings like that on Vulcan?"

"'Opinion is a spectrum and we are the colors'?" he offered, chewing slowly, "Or perhaps, "Measure not the needs of the hungry by the warmth of your cloak," would be more appropriate."

"No no, the first one was good," Komack smiled, "Vulcans and their sayings, hey Chris?"

The Captain focused on him for the first time in several minutes, and started, noticing something.

"Spock, I thought you couldn't touch food with your hands. . ."

He held back a sigh, realizing just how few times, despite their friendship, that he and Chris had actually been in close day-to-day contact. "It is a social custom on Vulcan not to touch our food while eating it - of course while preparing food some contact is almost unavoidable - and practically every cultural group on Vulcan follows it. The practice is a result of our total rejection of our barbarous past, when there were no utensils save knives, and killing was not only necessary, it was encouraged. And not just for food."

"But. . ." Komack looked even more confused than Chris.

"Bread is the obvious exception, Admiral. Bread requires agriculture - fertile soil, a steady source of water, time, skill, settled homes, and peace in the surrounding lands - in short, civilization. To touch bread is to touch the very basis of what made us what we are today."

"You had agriculture for millennia before the Revolutionary Period, didn't you?" Komack asked, "Surely. . ."

"I was explaining the symbolism and function, Admiral, not giving an historical dissertation."

"Plus, being able to eat with your hands on occasion makes a boatload of things a lot easier," Chris said, winking at him.

"Indeed."

Komack nodded, "Logical."

"As always," Chris grinned.

"Besides," Spock continued, surprising himself with his talkativeness, "Eating exclusively with utensils is merely a custom - not a law. Much like our vegetarianism, or our stance against intoxicants; they are all personal choices, rather than lawful requirements."

"Riiiiight," Pike drawled, "Is that why when you order bacon and eggs from the replicator everyone on a Vulcan ship looks at you funny?"

"I do not order bacon and eggs, Captain."

Chris snorted, "You know damn well what I'm talking about."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"Even when it was replicated - as in 'No pigs, turkeys, cows or chickens were harmed in the making of this breakfast. . .' " Chris shook his head, "Logic."

"Logic does not prevent bias, Captain. Nor can it."

"All I wanted was a familiar meal!"

"Indeed. And in doing so you inadvertently stumbled into what was then a "hot topic" in Vulcan politics."

"How can replicators be political?"

"For a race of vegetarians and pacifists, it was not unexpected or illogical for replicated meat to become a bone of contention."

Chris blinked, then laughed somewhat grudgingly at the drily delivered pun. "Anyone ever tell you it's a good thing you didn't follow in your father's footsteps?"

"Almost constantly, Captain." He took another bite of his toast, attempting to end the conversation.

Practically all of this had obviously gone over Komack's head. He cleared his throat, "Um. . . How did you two ever even meet? I mean, I know that Chris was stationed aboard a Vulcan ship for a while before he managed to recruit you somehow, and that you blew the top off the entrance exams to the freaking VSA before even taking the Starfleet one - but how did. . . ?" he gestured between the two of them, simple curiosity on his face.

Spock exchanged a look with Chris.

"Do you want to tell it, or should I?" Chris's eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Captain, I find that your telling not only manages to be increasingly exaggerated every time, you also change the facts with each iteration."

"Yeah, and you make it so boring that an Andorian glacier sounds more exciting."

"I have observed Andorian glaciers, and the sounds they make often are "more exciting" than the story of how we met." He took the last bite of his toast, chewing and swallowing before reluctantly gesturing for Chris to go ahead. "Very well. I find I am curious as to which aspects of the story you will focus on this time - seeing that you are knowingly telling it in my presence."

Chris blushed, "Hey, I apologized for that!"

"Indeed, but Dean Braddock has never looked at me the same way since you told her - "

"No, I don't want to know this part!" the Admiral exclaimed, turning to point at Spock, "You, hush. That's an order." He turned to Chris, "You, the story - no frills. Also an order. Okay?"

Chris nodded, subdued, but still with a glint of mischief in his eyes. . . "Alright, I'll tell it, and Spock can jump in and correct me if I get too. . . hyperbolic - that work for everyone?"

Spock nodded, solemnly.

"Right," Chris sighed, remembering, "It was, oh, four, five years ago now?"

"Four years, six months, two days - "

"Right right, anyway, it was during that big push for Vulcan and Earth to pool their resources in the quadrant, and for VSEF to merge with Starfleet."

"A singularly Human desire, I might add, Admiral. The Vulcans would not have thought of such a thing."

Komack laughed, "I guess that's why it never happened. . ."

"Indeed."

"Yeah, well," Chris continued, "Everyone had a hard enough time just accepting the suggestion, so as some kind of intermediate experiment, I guess, Starfleet stepped up their officer exchange program. Of course there had been a steady amount of collaboration between Starfleet and VSEF for decades, but only one or two people a year actually officially worked directly on a ship belonging to the other organization. And there was I, fresh from the Yorktown and three years in deep space - not to mention more than 20 years experience overall - thinking I had seen pretty nearly all there was to see, and lo and behold, my next assignment was for a year with VSEF - as third officer on the T'Pai. Good ship, by the way, crew of about 80, with the estimable Captain Torvol presiding. . . but I was third officer - knocked down to a Lieutenant Commander and fourth in command when I had been a captain for eight years, mind you - eight years. I found out later that there were fifteen more captains who had been given the same treatment. Fifteen."

"It was logical to initially place the Human officers in secondary bridge positions aboard the participating Vulcan ships, Captain. Long experience with one type of ship does not automatically infer competence with another. They were placed as they were so that they might garner some experience before they were promoted to positions where unfamiliarity with something as simple as placement of the controls, or the names of his shipmates, could have disastrous consequences."

"Yeah, I know that now, Spock, but you Vulcans have a habit of not explaining yourselves unless asked, while at the same time giving the impression that you don't want to be asked. At the time it seemed like a calculated insult. Even you have to admit it was handled brusquely - to say the least."

Spock shrugged slightly, admittedly not displeased with how Chris was relating the story so far. "Not all Vulcans are as diplomatic as my father has learned to be, it is true."

"And I happen to know at least ten Vulcan officers participating in the exchange were given Starfleet positions of Commander or higher - right out of the gate."

"That is irrelevant, Captain. An officer exchange allows members of each organization to experience the other. This includes customs and philosophies, not merely members of another race or culture. What seems fair or logical to Starfleet is in many cases diametrically opposed to what is considered common sense in the Vulcan Space Exploration Fleet. This is why officer exchanges exist. Starfleet treated the Vulcan officers as they would treat their own. VSEF did as well. I happen to agree that the matter could have been handled with greater aplomb, but I also know that there was a marked lack of resistance to the venture at the time - a rare instance of such a lack, incidentally."

Chris shrugged, then continued, "So, anyway, there I was, reporting for duty, the lone Human in a long line of Vulcans, waiting to meet our fearless leader - I had heard of Torvol, even then - but instead, in walks this skinny kid, eighteen if he's a day, looking like he's never set his rear in a Captain's chair in all his life - "

"At that point, I had not. You se-"

Chris ignored him, "- and what does he say to us? Well, first he gets all serious - more serious than usual, you understand - and he gives us all the hand salute thing and says - "Greetings colleagues, I am Acting Captain Spock. I will be trading duties with Captain Torvol for the first two months of our mission. Dismissed." Just like that."

"I said considerably more than - "

"And then - and in a tone of voice that made it clear that The Illogical Human must be constrained at all costs - he orders me to his office - this Teenage Mutant Ninja Vulcan calls me into his office and makes me salute him - and only then did he explain what the deal was, Vulcan policy and all, and what was up."

"I am a hybrid, not a mutan- "

"Turns out, he had only just made Second Officer himself, but Torvol thought that with Spock's "broader experience with Humans" it might make my first couple of months easier if he was Captain, and Torvol was First Officer."

"And I believe the results bore out the truth of tha-"

"And then after two months we'd all shuffle back around, with Torvol as Captain, me as First Officer, and Spock as Second Officer - as though a starship was a flipping checkerboard!"

"If you will let me speak, Captain," Spock said, holding back his frustration, "I will tell the Admiral that it is a common exercise aboard Vulcan ships to shuffle the bridge duties during non-critical missions. This prevents laxity in the most common tasks that can be asked of any bridge officer during a crisis - it is good to assure that the Science officer can pilot the ship, or the Captain can sit at Ops, or the Communications officer can properly aim the phaser banks - and so on."

"But Spock, our mission was not 'non-critical'!"

"It was for the first two months."

Chris shrugged, "I suppose. . ."

"And I firmly believe that those two months more fully prepared you for the admittedly highly successful role you played as First Officer during the rest of the mission."

Pike grinned, "Well, anyway - that's the "shocking twist" Admiral - when we first met, Spock was my Captain, not the other way around."

The Admiral grunted a laugh. "Fascinating."

"Ain't it just?" Chris finished his g'teth-kh'ir, and proceeded to fold his hands behind his head, the mischievous glint in his eyes returning with double force. "I still owe him for that call to his office, though, and fortunately, tonight I have an excuse to repay in full. . ."

Spock did not bother to conceal his consternation, "Sir, what are you planning?"

"Ha! You see, Spock? All it takes is one threat, and I'm "Sir" and not "Chris", like I should be," he laughed again, triumphantly, "I promise it isn't anything terribly taxing - I just want you to participate in a Human custom now. Oh, and you're invited too, of course, Admiral."

Spock narrowed his eyes at Pike, "I am entirely in the dark as to what -"

"Spock, you've been on Earth for more than two years now, without loosening up once; you've just been sick for a week, and you just broke up with your girlfriend." A significant glance Spock did not understand passed between Chris and Komack, "I'd say it's high time you accepted at least one Human ritual."

"May I assume it has something to do with the Human notion of "getting over" terminated relationships?"

"Got it in one, my friend."

He gave a very small sigh, "What does this "Human ritual" entail?"

"Well, first, a dinner with your friends - preferably one you can't afford, but you've thrown caution to the winds for once."

"Chris, I do not think - "

"Hey hey, don't interrupt. Right, next - Your friends buy you some great, luscious, amazing. . ." Chris looked at him closely for a split second, ". . . dessert. You know, the kind that sends you into a tailspin from the rush. . . sugar rush, I mean. . . but it's so good you still can't bring yourself to regret it the next day."

At this, Spock heard Komack snort. He had a distinct impression that Chris had meant something else entirely. . . . . .

Oh.

No.

That is not going to happen.

But Chris had moved on, "And then you go to a bar and get just plastered enough to get into a barfight, or whatever kind of fight that you can get into - a real bust-up, with lots of flying furniture - until the cops arrive. The trick is to make sure you don't actually start the fight, and try to have a nice Admiral or two around to bail you out." Komack snorted again, but less incredulously.

For a moment, Spock wondered what it was about intentional wanton violence that Komack found less distasteful than paying for sexual favors. . .

"Preferably this stage ends with an encounter with a cute nurse or two to bandage you up."

Spock raised his eyebrows, "An Admiral, a Captain and a Lieutenant go to a bar? It sounds like the beginning of one of your Terran jokes. Is the fight supposed to represent the proverbial 'punch line'?"

Chris blinked, and Komack stifled a laugh.

"Annnnd then it's off to a swanky club that sells nothing but hard drinks and plays its music even harder - the kind of place that makes you forget your name and inhibitions on the dance floor, and you probably end up puking your guts out in the toilet, but whatever, you've forgotten the bitch who left you, even if only for a moment. Whaddaya say?"

"The vast majority of this "ritual" strikes me as extremely unpleasant."

"Perfect, let's go."

"I do not get a say in this expedition?"

"Nope. Not when you didn't get off your half-Human butt and actually tell me that you'd broken up with your girlfriend."

"Leila was not -"

"Whatever, look, I'm Human, Mack is Human, you're half-Human - we have to do this, or we aren't good friends."

"The Vulcan definition of "friends" does not entail - "

"Listen to the man, Spock," said Komack. "Now, I could make this an order, but I won't - go out tonight. Have some fun. Forget school for a little while. It'd do you good." He shook his head. "You do so much, but, really, you don't do nearly enough." At Spock's confused expression, the admiral sighed, "You always do the same things, Spock. Think about shaking things up a little, okay?"

It was the first even slightly logical thing the Admiral had said. Spock felt himself weakening slightly.

Forgetting did sound terribly good.

Thoroughly, entirely, too good.

And he knew from experience that his usual meditations would not comfort him the first night after T'Pring's fever.

A night out with Chris could not possibly be more upsetting than that, could it?

Spock sighed audibly, "Very well - however, I refuse to intentionally participate in violence of any kind, I do not intend to purposely induce myself to vomit, and I do not require any form of purchased sexual release." He visibly shuddered at the thought of doing any combination of the three in one night - on purpose. He wished to forget the part he had played in two women's pain - not cause more pain to himself or others.

Another incomprehensible glance passed between the Captain and the Admiral.

"Fine," said Chris, "We'll even let you pick the restaurant."

"Why do not I find that at all reassuring?"

"No idea," shrugged Pike, jumping up and making for the hall closet, "That shirt and those slacks you're wearing will do fine, but we'll probably be out late, so you'll need this," Chris rummaged in the closet for a few moments and pulled out a soft brown leather jacket, shiny with wear. "Here, put this on," he said, as he peremptorily threw it at him, "We're about the same size, and this will attract much less attention than any of those aggressively ugly sweaters you wear so often."

Pike then extracted another, newer, darker jacket for himself.

Spock gingerly examined the garment he now held. It was cut in a classic streamlined style that would, indeed, fit him, but. . . it was so. . . Human. . . "Captain, I am not sure. . ."

"Well, I am. Put it on, Spock."

Grudgingly, he did.

Pike stopped his own preparations and frankly stared at him.

"Huh, maybe that isn't more subtle than your Vulcan Uglies," said Chris, a strange look on his face, "Now all you need is a comb in your back pocket and the ability to say "Eyyyyy" in a suitably cheesy accent. . ."

Both he and Komack stared at Chris, uncomprehending.

Pike sighed, "And the growth of an entirely different taste in classic entertainment, of course. No matter, you'll still be chasing them off with a stick."

"Why would I wish to -"

Chris interrupted with a short, sharp whistle for Mina, picked up her tractor-leash from the bar, and slipped his ID and credit chits into his pocket.

"No time for questions now, Spock - we're on a mission." He knelt as Mina trotted in, and he activated the tractor-link on her collar. "Now then, where do you want to go for dinner?"

Spock closed his eyes for a minute, centering himself.

If I can survive nine days alone in the desert, and the subsequent death of my best friend at the time, I can endure this night. If I can remain sane through T'Pring's endless instability, I can accept Christopher's and Komack's Human enthusiasm. They are only trying to help. . .

"There is a new establishment I have been meaning to try. It is called "Kau'nshaya" and it specializes in a unique cuisine called "Vulcan Fusion". Also, my mother is an old friend of the proprietors."

"Gem of a woman, your mother," said Chris.

"I am inclined to agree, Captain."

"Have you told her you broke up with Leila?"

Spock sighed, "No. I have not yet had the chance."

"Well, make sure you do," Chris pulled out his comm. "You got directions to this "cow-nosh-area" place?"

"If your flitter's global placement maps have been updated within the past month, then it will know the best route to take." He was, quite honestly, not "up to" the task of narrating directions at this time. "However, I believe we would garner the best result from it if I pronounced the name of our destination."

"You got it," Pike said, using the touchpad by the door to turn on the house alarm and lock the windows, "You want to pilot too?"

Ordinarily, he would have been "all over that", as Pike's would say, but today. . . "No, thank you Chris. I am still tired from my. . . ordeal. . ."

"Hmp, you must be," said Komack. "The only cadets who have more flight hours than you are the ones specifically training to be pilots."

The Admiral climbed in shotgun as Pike put Mina into the backseat of the flitter with a crisp "Up girl!"

Spock told the flitter where to go, and settled in beside the nervous and pacing Mina, who hated all cars on principle, and the back seat of Chris's small flitter in particular. She nosed insistently at his hand, her nose cool and damp against his skin. He was sitting as he always did, shoulders back, very proper. He attempted not to become annoyed. For a moment he contemplated how accurately she was portraying his inner state - a nearly schizophrenic uncertainty in the present situation, but still looking for comfort from an acceptable person. It was almost eerie.

He was no longer annoyed.

This animal. . .

She eventually resigned herself to the enclosed space of the flitter, resting her golden-brown and white striped muzzle on his lap. He put his hand on her head, and she quickly fell asleep.

An ancient poem he had learned in school ran though his mind -

This animal with such sentient hue,

Cries out mutely to the ebbing light,

While gods of fearsome calm imbue,

Him with deadly dreams of night,

That draw an endless end,

Tight to honor, bound

To find, and spend,

His one soul,

To sing,

Once

It was an untitled poem in the archaic and particularly difficult to translate Vulcan form of tev-torsvii'far-doth - the Vulcan variation of an ottava rima. It was unsigned, as well, but most likely it was from the Vulcan Revolutionary Period, and very possibly written by a direct follower of Surak himself. Perhaps even Spokh. . . the original, legendary Spokh. But that was mere speculation.

Still, for years it had been his favorite piece of lyricism.

Spock closed his eyes, leaning back into the soft cushions of Chris's flitter, stroking Mina'a silky ears.

One day, back before he had been born, his mother had found the piece of ancient vellum crumbling away in a forgotten folio at one of Shi'Kahr's many libraries, had taken it home, and had managed to translate the obscure Ana'khana words quite brilliantly into the modern vernacular of Common Vulcan. And from there, also into Standard.

That had been the first and only project of his mother's that the Great Shi'oren had ever acknowledged. That one time they had praised her talents, and had incorporated the poem and its two translations into their advanced curriculum, entirely without question. They had been impressed with her work, and grateful for the discovery of so important a piece. Even the Vulcan High Council had approved.

The Classics and Literature department of Shi'Kahr's Great Shi'oren had made it mandatory reading for nearly twenty-five years by now.

And yet. . . he had not known anything about Amanda's role in its discovery and translation until he had joined VSEF and had spoken of it to a fellow Science officer who had been a year ahead of him at the Great Shi'oren.

"Of course it is your most preferred poem," the officer had said, "It is proof your mother is equal to a Vulcan."

The man had not said this maliciously, but rather with the conviction that such a sentiment was true.

It still made Spock feel like an unmitigated outsider.

When he had next taken leave, he had gone immediately home and asked his mother, straight out, why had she never told him about her one great honor in Vulcan culture? Why had she never insisted her name be attached to such a find? Why had she not capitalized upon so great a thing? She might at least have made it generally known. Why had she never given him ammunition against all those who spoke of her in derogatory terms, implying she had never done anything beneficial for Vulcan society?

Why did she still make him feel like an outsider? Though, to be sure, it was through no fault of her own. . .

She had turned off her computer console, for she had been working when he had demanded an audience with her, and she had taken his arm, gently leading him to the Human style sofa that occupied her private office.

"I never told you, Spock," she had said, very gently, "Because I thought it was a perfect thing for you to discover on your own, and in your own time - a beautiful thing, haunting, mysterious, triumphant. How many times can someone say that they have a wonderful secret in their past? Lovely things are not often hidden - people want to show them. It is ugly things that people want to hide, or pretend they don't exist." She crossed her arms, "And as for "ammunition", it has always been there for you, if you had ever looked hard enough. I'll have you know that dozens of other Vulcan schools have accepted my work, at least five Vulcan museums have consulted with me, I've worked with the Diplomatic Corps and with VSEF, and I am, at this very moment, in the middle of a project for the VSA. The VSA, Spock. Recognition from the Great Shi'oren does matter, but not so much that anything else I've done is devalued. I have never been idle - or felt myself useless. Though, there is usually a disturbing bias against most of my opinions. . ." She had sighed then, sorrowful or frustrated he had not been certain. "You're going to come across so many dark or evil things in your life, Spock, I just wanted to be sure you discovered one beautiful thing. Just one thing, sa-fu, just once, for sure. That old poem was not really a secret - it was a present."

It was on that day that he had ceased to be a child, moving fully into the world of mature perspectives.

There are things it is good to discover.

But by the same token, there were things which ought to be told, upfront, to get them out and over.

"Christopher?" he said, interrupting Komack's latest good-natured rant.

"Yes, Spock?"

"I apologize for not informing you of the termination of my relationship with Leila."

A broad grin appeared on Chris's face, "That's alright, Spock - from now on, just try and remember that I'm here for you, okay?"

"Now that I am more fully aware of the meaning you attribute to that phrase, I will endeavor to be more inclusive with the concept."

Chris's grin turned to a smirk as the flitter pulled into the parking allotment for Kau'nshaya.

---

Spock had been right, as usual. This place was worth checking out.

From outside it was a fairly simple, ordinaryish looking place - A blocky gray building with the huge doors most restaurants had. It was made only slightly interesting by having asymmetrically-shaped oval windows scattered in an odd pattern across the walls. Other than that, there was little that was special about the outside, except that the light that streamed from those windows was of a strangely rich red-gold hue. A "sunset" light, Pike thought, only it was past sundown, and anyway, Sol never gave off quite that shade of red, even during brilliant sunsets. It gave the building just a tinge of alien-ness.

Spock led the way through the great double-doors, and into the foyer - a sizable room, crowded all along its edge with benches made of an interesting faux-stone. And nearly every bench was packed full of people waiting for a table. Indeed, a moderately long line existed to even speak with the hostess. Pike saw, to his relief, that she was Human. At least there wouldn't be the danger of cultural entanglements before they had even ordered drinks. . .

They stood in line, and waited. He took in the room.

The walls were surfaced with a rough-textured red sandstone veined faintly with peach. A few incredibly artistic desert-scape holos were scattered here and there on the walls, and the arched ceiling was covered with a very striking purplish-brown tile. It looked almost as glossy as glass, and it glittered with golden highlights along the joints.

Neat.

He looked over into the main dining room. Some of the tables were low, dark-lacquered affairs, surrounded by very comfortable looking overstuffed cushions - and some were tall Human-style tables with chairs, each set apparently molded from the same dappled burnt-orange plasti-granite as the benches here in the foyer. There were also occasional large alcoves, curtained with sheer, pale drapes that partially hid the more private dinner tables, which were all the low, cushioned-seated type, from what he could see. There were no plants anywhere - though Chris supposed he ought to have expected that - but there were tiny cascade fountains at each table, glowing with some inner luminescence he couldn't quite explain at this distance. Several clear, water-filled columns were scattered throughout the main room too - bubbles floated though them, from floor to ceiling, and moving colored lights inside the top and base gleamed on the bubbles. Indeed, everything seemed to float upon the dark gray, oiled soapstone of the floor. Chris, prodding at it with his toe, assumed it was tile, but, oddly, he could see no joints anywhere, as if the entire place was floored with one single piece of stone. The light, which from outside had seemed so alien, was warm and homey now, softened through the screens of the filigree lanterns that hung everywhere, just beyond range of a tall customer's head.

Everything was slightly rounded, and asymmetrical. The decor did not so much suggest a cave as it did a mine. It was all deliberate, sculpted, almost gemlike, but purposeful.

And safe.

Odd, perhaps, but that was strongest impression Chris was taking from all this.

We are safe here.

Huh. Funny.

But funny in a totally Vulcan way, of course.

Anyway, if it was a selling tactic, then it seemed to be working, as the Thursday night crowd was as large as the Saturday night crowd often was in other, less popular places.

For several minutes he was slightly afraid there wouldn't be a table for them without a prohibitively long wait, but when it was finally their turn, Spock didn't have to say more than ten words to the hostess before she was on her comm., apparently speaking in rapid tones to the owners of the place.

It looked as if being the son of the Vulcan Ambassador came with perks.

"If you will wait over there for just a moment," said the pretty Human girl, her long black hair done up in hundreds of tiny braids arranged in a distinctly Vulcan manner, "T'Pekh would appreciate seeing you before you are seated."

Spock nodded solemnly at her, and she turned her attention to the next party that had entered.

"T'Pekh and her husband Sorvol worked for many years at Insight," said Spock, conversationally, as they seated themselves on the only empty bench left in the foyer. "You may have heard of it - it is one of the more famous restaurants in Shi'Kahr."

"I have," said Mack, "Never been, though."

"And whenever I was in Shi'Kahr on leave, your mother insisted I stay at your parent's estate - remember?" Chris smiled, lightly punching Spock on the shoulder. "She's an extremely good cook herself, and she knows it. I don't think I ever had anything but home-cooked meals the whole time I was there. Never heard of this Insight place. . ."

Spock indicated he understood with his signature almost-imperceptible Vulcan shrug. "It is known for its specific catering to offworld palates and sensibilities. Sorvol was their master chef for nearly five decades, until recently, when he and T'Pekh decided to open this establishment. My mother made their acquaintance many years ago, whilst my father was on an offworld assignment that she could not accompany him upon, and she took the opportunity to explore the city. She does not often mention Sorvol or T'Pekh to me, but I do recall her being quite enthusiastic over Sorvol's signature dish of rice pen't'af, with ki'slar infused lavosh."

"Well, I'm looking forward to it," said Chris, admittedly surprised at how talkative Spock was being. For someone usually so impossibly reticent, most of his conversation tonight positively amounted to gushing. Well, gushing for Spock, anyway. . .

Eh, kid's been sick, let him talk.

A Vulcan woman wearing a very plain dress with a nametag that bore the logo of the restaurant approached them from one of the side rooms. Or rather, approached him.

"Your animal is not allowed in the dining area," she said, looking at Mina, "For sanitary reasons. Unless there is a medical purpose. . ."

"No, no, she's not a guide dog." He handed Mina over reluctantly, but the young woman was quick to reassure him.

"We have a very comprehensive Pet Room. Always at least two attendants, many toys, and very clean, comfortable cages for animals that need to be separated from the others. There is even an outdoor area, with grass." The young Vulcan's eyes lit up, the reaction of a desert-dweller to whom grass still held an alien fascination. "There are three other dogs there tonight, and quite amiable ones, I believe. There are also five Betazoid hemar, two Andorian deyth and one very sedate Orion fth'oc. She will have good company and be well cared for. Do you want her fed, as well?"

"Sure, why not?" They were all out on the town, let Mina feast too. "All her information, serving sizes and preferences are programmed into her collar - and you can replicate whatever you need to, she doesn't mind rep food."

"I will see to her, good sir." She left with Mina, who glanced back at the three of them, but went willingly, probably scenting the other dogs already. She was a social creature. . .

"Ahnd so diis ist dah son of dah Layday Amandah," said a deep, heavily accented, and very imposing voice. All three of them stood as one, turning towards the archway that led to the dining room. "Ahnd you halve taken your own time to viseet us, halve you not?"

It was quite impossible to think that such a voice could be coming from such a tiny, shrunken woman, whose tall fancy headdress and long skirted robes seemed to weigh more than she herself did, but there it was. There she was, as large as life, and twice as alive, somehow. She owned the room, literally and figuratively.

An. . . important sort of look came over Spock, "Greetings, T'Pekh," he said, giving her a Vulcan salute, "I am a guest within your house. My friends and I claim the honors of hospitality."

The ancient looking woman stood straighter in her traditional Vulcan robes, obviously appreciating the formality of Spock's greeting. Her eyes flicked over Mack, and then over Pike himself. He flinched a little at her intense glance.

"Your frehends? Indeet. Fhollow me."

Without looking back to see if they followed her, she made her way through the main dining room. There was a proprietary set to her head which lent an increased intensity to her already very present presence. Every set of patrons either noticed her, or reacted to her in some way, with a slight turns of their heads in her direction, or with small pauses in conversation as she passed by.

It would be impossible not to follow her.

They made quick time to back of the restaurant, and she led them to a large corner alcove, obviously unoccupied. It was different than the other alcoves Chris had noticed, as you had to go up three steps to get to this one. T'Pekh swept up the smooth black stairs, caught back the curtains, and gave Spock a sharp look. The kid actually hurried to seat himself, Mack quickly following suit. Chris did too, but a mite slower. Interested as he was in this little drama, at that moment, the room interested him more.

The alcove was large, but not excessively so. It probably could comfortably seat fifteen or sixteen, if they didn't elbow too much. The light was low, but the lanterns were well placed, close above the table. The nearest little grey crystal water feature registered their presence and started, lighting up from the inside and making a very nice gentle trickling noise. Chris smiled, ignoring the stern look T'Pekh was giving him. Surprisingly, this alcove was floored with wood. Real, light-grained, beautifully polished, natural wood. Once Chris got seated, he looked out through the room's sheer curtains. You could see over nearly the whole dining room from here, like you were part of its community, but also above it, both at once.

Only in a Vulcan atmosphere would such a room seem luxurious, but it clearly was meant to be.

After T'Pekh had watched them to their seats, she spoke again. "You shall not eat in dah main rhoom, no. For you, diis speshial table." She gestured to the opposite wall. "Here. With dah whindow, you see."

Chris, so taken up with the inside of this place, had almost forgotten the outside. The big oval window showed a beautiful starry sky and lovely light-starred skyline. . . Chris blinked as he realized he had not seen any other private booths with windows. . .

Odd.

No - alien. . .

"Ahnd shall you be truhsting my ahdun tonight for your meal, or will you be having dah ahdventures of your own?"

"We are your guests, T'Pekh," said Spock, with almost incredible solemnity, "For politeness sake, we must make our own journey."

"Bhut we are not upon Vhulcan, no. It ist I who am dah guhest - I ahnd my husbhand - here in diis place it ist whee who jhourney, yes? Ahnd will you truhst us fhor daht which whee do dah bhest?"

"We are in your hands, T'Pekh. We can but acquiesce."

She nodded a tiny approving nod, and turned to the two Human men, "Ahnd do either of you be having dah allergees, or dah religion restrictions?

They both shook their heads, having been stricken quite dumb by all this purely Vulcan give-and-take.

"Goodt, then dare ist no confliction. Ahnd I shall leave you to T'Lath," she pronounced it Ti-lot-h, "For she ist dah bhest of dah whoman servers I halve - ahnd how whould dah mhen be fed witout dah whomen?" A clear gleam of amusement winked in her eyes, and, at last, she did not seem imposing - rather the sort of woman who could. . . And did. . . own the beautiful, strange, alien, yet welcoming restaurant they were sitting in.

Spock gave her the hand salute again, and she left, with as much of a smile on her face as any Vulcan could admit to having.

"Quite a personality, that woman," said Mack, "Never seen anyone like her."

He did not make it sound like a compliment.

Before Spock could answer, Chris jumped in, "She is that. I can see why your mother likes her." He gave a quick look to Komack - he was not going to insult Spock's people by teasing too much, no matter how good-natured he meant the ribbing to be.

Spock, however, conspicuously refused to notice.

"Indeed, Admiral," he said, quite his usual calm self, "No doubt you noticed her unique accent. Both she and her husband originate from the Xir'Tan province on Vulcan - our smallest and most isolated continent. It is something of a mixture between your Australia and Madagasc - "

Here he was interrupted by the waitress T'Lath. Wordlessly, she placed a large ceramic jug on the table between them, and then distributed three teacups around before lifting the pitcher again, and filling the cups. "Bargot'ehk for the gentlemen," she said, simply, "I will return with the sweet course momentarily." She gave a small, flat smile that Chris was sure she had practiced in a mirror, "Na'shayalar be'hai'la."

"Wehk-les'ek, T'Lath," said Spock.

She left them, and they sat in silence.

The tea was the usual unappetizing murky gray that Chris remembered - he knew it was made with salted butter, sweet milk, and dark-roasted bar-got. He sipped, the flavor taking him back to the red stones and strong, heavy winds; the strange haunting sights and sounds and smells of Vulcan. . . He sighed. It had been far too long since he had let himself be nostalgic about a place. . . any place.

Might as well think of Vulcan. . . couldn't hurt. . . much, anyway.

And it would certainly hurt less than some other memories. . .

Mack was quiet next to him, drinking tentatively from his cup, but seeming to enjoy it - a little at least. He didn't even ask for the meaning of what the server had said in Vulcan, or what a "sweet course" was doing at the beginning of a meal. Well. . . maybe Chris's unspoken warning had gotten through. Mack was not a fool, despite his constant affectation of truculent and slightly fatuous jocularity. He was certainly restraining himself.

Spock did not speak either, but at least that was fairly normal. Though, he did wonder what the kid had been in the middle of saying, and why he hadn't continued once T'Lath had left.

Ah well. Maybe he was waiting for the first course to arrive - though, if Spock had decided to go true to form, he would be silent throughout the meal, as tradition demanded.

Chris shrugged inwardly, and took another sip of tea.

Having been in the company of Vulcans before, he already knew the progression such a formal meal would take - the sweet course, the salty course, the sour course and the bitter course, interspersed with small "color" courses that blended each main flavor into the next. The "blue" course - usually a cold drink - between sweet and salty; the "orange" course - usually a small cold hors d'oeuvre-like thing - between salty and sour; the "violet" course - most likely raw sliced vegetables with a cream-based sauce - between sour and bitter; and the "gold" course - normally a hot drink - to end the progression and the meal. And of course, there would be the smooth flow of the tea through it all, binding it together.

Unsurprisingly, such a complicated presentation was actually considered the most logical way to serve a meal. He had never agreed with that particular sentiment.

But then, I rarely do agree with Vulcans.

Maybe that was why he liked them so much.

T'Lath reappeared with large tray laden with the first course and color. There were three bowls of an oatmeal colored mush, a plate of golden-brown flatbread that had been sprinkled with green-black seeds, a small pot of clear amber jelly, and three tall, narrow glasses of a brilliant magenta juice Chris vaguely remembered, but could not immediately identify.

"The Chef's signature pen't'af, made with Terran jasmine rice," said T'Lath as she served them, "Lavosh with ki'slar seeds and jam, and naric juice mixed with the pulp of ruby grapefruit."

Chris hesitated for a second. "The color course. . . is. . . isn't. . . blue?"

T'Lath gave the same flat smile again, "It is the Time Of The Festival Of Surak. We change the color progression to reflect this. Magenta, then black, then green, then blue."

"Interesting."

"I am gratified you find it so."

She lifted the now empty tray, and left.

The pen't'af was a sweet and creamy rice pudding, and the ki'slar jelly might have been golden yellow, but it tasted almost exactly like ripe strawberries. The lavosh was warm and freshly crisp, the seeds it was sprinkled with giving it an interesting textured crunch.

He hadn't realized just how hungry he was until right now.

It was several minutes before Chris paid any attention to anything except the food, but when he looked up at last, he was instantly mystified. Mack was clearly enjoying the meal just as much as he was so far, but Spock - who had to be hungry, given that he had scarcely eaten anything for the past five and a half days - Spock, the proper, the young, the go-getter, wasn't eating.

Chris slowed his chewing, very worried. Spock was just sitting there, but he knew he couldn't ask. He swallowed, and took a sip of the brightly colored juice.

Mm. Naric. That's right. Pomegranate-ish, but not as sweet. . . must be the grapefruit.

Spock still sat there, a stricken look on his face.

He had no idea what to say, but he had the feeling that if he didn't say something, the kid was going to burst into flames before his very eyes.

"Spock?" He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous for no good reason. "Why did you tell our server wehk-les'ek instead of th'i-oxalra? I've heard you use both before, but isn't th'i-oxalra more usual?"

"It. . . it is. . ." Spock replied, his voice very faint, "I. . . I had forgotten. . ."

"Forgotten? Forgotten what?"

"Today."

"What do you mean, forgotten today? Today is today - you were sick, and now you're not, and we are celebrating that fact."

"No, Captain, today. . . today is gad'r'tas, in the midst of the Festival of Surak. Wehk-les'ek is one of the remembrance phrases we say during this time. . . and I forgot."

"Obviously not, since you said it."

"It was an instinctual reaction. . . I did not remember until she mentioned it. . . I have never forgotten before. . ."

"But so what, Spock? You've been ill! If that isn't an excuse for forgetting a calendar date that's mostly only important to people lightyears away from you, then I don't know what is."

The kid sighed, actually sighed, and turned to him, very forlorn, "Captain, have you ever forgotten an important calendar date? Christmas, perhaps? Your own birthday? Ever?"

Chris took another sip of the naric juice before replying. "Yes, I did forget Christmas once, actually. Darndest thing."

"And how did you react to the occurrence?"

"I went to my cabin and slept." He spread some jam on a piece of the flatbread, gesturing with it as he explained. "You see, Spock, I had been on a six-month patrol of a very touchy section of the Neutral Zone, and no one on the whole ship felt like celebrating anything other than just simply being alive. Once we were finally off alert and safely on our way home, three-quarters of the crew went and partied so hard we ended up spending our first two weeks in spacedock just cleaning up the galley. And the rest of us went right to bed and slept for two days straight. Damn good thing nothing interesting happened to us, since there was no one to even pilot the ship for a lot of that trip home. I don't think any of us realized that that first day was Christmas Eve - though it made a handy excuse for the mess we made. I sure as heck didn't feel bad for forgetting, because most of our families had postponed their Christmas parties to wait for us anyway. And those who hadn't were the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas. You see, remembering something like that wasn't our job at that point. We did what was our job, and left other people to remember the important dates. Stress does things to your memory - it makes you focus on what is really important - and there's no shame in that."

"But I am Vulcan. . ."

"You've been sick."

"I am also a direct descendant of Surak."

"Yeah, who has been straight up delusional with a fever for the majority portion of five of the last seven days. Are you telling me that doesn't even count?"

"It. . . it is as though. . . for a time. . . I forgot my own name - or who I am."

"Well, yeah, brain fever can do that to a guy."

"It was not brain fever."

Chris sighed, more to himself than at the kid's troubles, "Look, Spock, if you're going to beat yourself up over this, do it on your own time, please. Right now, we are at a very fancy restaurant, for the express purpose of forgetting unpleasant things. Now, I'm not going to tell you what you should feel, or how seriously you should take your religion. . . or whatever this festival is about. . . all I'm saying is - there are worse things than forgetting something as a result of extreme pressure. It happens. Can we all enjoy our meal now?"

Spock seemed to wilt a little, but he did at last turn his attention to the food.

"That's the spirit," said Mack, cheerfully, "Life is short, eat dessert first."

Chris laughed, long and loudly, and even Spock seemed to find the sentiment slightly encouraging, if not amusing.

However, true to form, he said nothing.

Chris wasn't surprised when he continued to say nothing, so he picked up his own conversation with Mack. They discussed the Enterprise's new projected long range sensor array configuration during the pok-tar and black-shelled Rhombolian mollusks in their unique sweet and sour butter sauce (of which Spock did not partake, but Chris understood that this place, though run by Vulcans, was catering mainly to a Human clientele - not surprising that there were some non-vegetarian things on the menu); and Mack talked incessantly about the less-volatile portions of the transcripts from the latest Federation talks with the Klingons during the pret-armeel'i and fhour'yon salad, winding down to a slightly pompous discussion of recent Cardassian "peace envoys" during the refreshingly astringent, and surprisingly red plomeek soup.

"I for one don't care how much they don't attack us," said Mack, "There isn't any love lost between our races and that's how it's gonna stay for a few lifetimes, or I'm a jackrabbit."

"In the end, the best that can be said of anyone is that "he understood his fellow men". To love is easy, and therefore common. But understanding is rare, and precious indeed." Chris smiled. "Yves St. Allard, third President of the Federation. Good man, by all accounts."

"Mmph. He's the fellow who made first contact with Cardassia, isn't he?"

"Yep."

"Well all the understanding in the universe isn't going to make our border with them any less difficult to maintain."

"Might stop a war though."

"With the Klingons to the left of us and the Romulans to the right of us?" he scoffed, picking up the last color course - a shot glass filled with a light blue liquid. "It might take a generation or two - or three - but there's trouble coming from all sides. If there isn't, I'll eat my buttons. The Federation isn't a bottomless pit of resources, Chris, and the thing is, our neighbors know it. We're still earning our own legitimacy, and Starfleet is the only thing we've got that even resembles a standing army. Mark my words, when worst comes to it - and it will, Chris - us spacers are going to be the only ones around who can take a stand. We're going to have to leave the understanding to the diplomats, because it's just not going to be in our job description anymore."

"I'm afraid I'm a little more optimistic, Mack."

"I also, Admiral," said Spock, finally speaking up, as he seemed to be finished with his dinner. "I speak from experience when I say that diplomacy is not the only efficacious method for understanding between races," he picked up his own small glass, "Also, you may not like the sheekuya n'a'na Admiral - it has quite a strong flavor." Spock downed the drink in one gulp.

Mack shrugged and kicked back the shot like a pro. He grimaced a little, but not enough to prevent Chris from following suit.

And a flaming sugar mill exploded in his mouth.

"Gah!" he spluttered, nearly choking, "Ahhk. . . how. . . how do you drink that stuff? It tastes like someone poured White Lightning through a sock. . . and into a bottle of crushed orange Tic-Tacs."

Spock poured him more tea, both of them ignoring Mack's not entirely concealed laughter, "The alcohol is a preservative. The ku'ya fruit is highly prized for its medicinal qualities, but they can only be harvested for a few days before they either rot or sprout - what are Tic-Tacs?"

"Classic Terran candy. . ." Chris had to pause as he coughed again, "That stuff is terrible."

"Fascinating. In my experience you have consistently chosen both sweet and intoxicating beverages. I had assumed you would also find this one palatable."

"Well, there's sweet, and then there's sweet. That right there is too sweet." He coughed again, less violently, "And there's a flippin' reason why White Lightning is still illegal - the stuff's a health hazard." He took a large mouthful of tea and swished it around before wincing and gulping it back. "Blehh. Sorry Spock, everyone's got a limit, and that's mine."

"It is of little consequence."

T'Lath re-entered their room at this moment, discreetly holding a wide-screened combo PADD and chit-scanner which she deftly placed in the center of the table as she gathered their last round of dishes. Chris swiftly picked it up, and looked at the bill as nonchalantly as though he were reading the menu.

"Mm, very nice, thanks," he said, tapping the screen to double the surprisingly low gratuity before swiping his credit chit, "You will send our compliments to the chef and his fascinating wife?"

T'Lath gave another flat smile, taking the scanner back, "I will, good sirs. It is customary to offer a dessert. . ." she paused, expectant.

"No, thank you," replied Spock, "We have other plans for that event."

Chris squirmed a little on his cushion, worried for a second that Spock had misunderstood what he had meant when he had spoken of "dessert" earlier. . .

When the waitress had nodded and left, Spock said, "There is an ice cream parlor not very distant from here that is a particular preference of mine - if you would care to join me. . .?"

"Of course, Spock, tonight is all for you," Chris said, relieved. "But, I must admit I'm surprised you even like ice cream - it seems like, well, not to be blunt or anything, but it seems a little too Human for you."

Spock stood, straightening the jacket he had given him, "Quite beyond the fact that I am half Human," he said, ever so slightly miffed, "it is also considered the highest luxury on Vulcan to consume anything cold or frozen, and as tonight ought to have informed you, Vulcan cuisine uses a high percentage of dairy products, and is commonly given to intense flavors. Ice cream is hardly beyond the scope of my inherent taste preferences."

"Huh," Chris grunted, reaching out a hand to help Mack stand up. The older man groaned a little, holding his lower back.

"Never eat more then you can lift", Mack said, grinning, "Miss Piggy."

Chris guffawed.

Spock didn't ask.

---

The Captain collected a happy and boisterous Mina from the hostess desk, then gestured for Spock to lead the way to the ice cream parlor.

He turned in the right direction by autopilot - there was only one thing repeating over and over in his mind, and it had nothing to do with dessert. T'Pring would not have forgotten it was gad'r'tas, of that he was certain. Perhaps it had not been the first thing on her mind right after waking up from the Fever, but she would not have forgotten. She simply could not have forgotten.

She is probably halfway up The Mountain by now.

He thought of the last time he had been to Seleya - three years ago. It had not been the Festival of Surak then, and he had been alone, armed only with the common-day Offering of bar-got and salt. He had spent minimal time at the Places of the Stones however, wishing to reach the Cave of the Ancients as soon as he could. Once there, he had communed with the Ark of Skon, his grandfather, trying to learn as much as possible about their family from him. And it had seemed that Skon, son of Solkar, son of Solor, had been made specifically to surprise him, Spock, personally. The Ark of Skon was focused on its son - more than was common, in fact. Sarek's father reached towards Sarek with almost unbelievable intensity. It was highly likely Skon's Ark would be one of the few that would accept more than one katra within itself, for he had felt Skon's reaching not only towards Sarek, but also towards T'Pau, his aunt T'Kala, his brother Sybok, and. . . himself. That had been the greatest surprise - that his grandfather would willingly, even eagerly, welcome eternity with him. They had never even met in person, and Skon reached towards him.

It had made him wonder if he had misjudged Sarek.

On his descent from the Cave, he had lingered contemplatively at the Bloodstone.

He wondered; If he fought for T'Pring, as Khosarr had fought, would she begin to care for him?

No, probably not.

Most likely she did not want him to be quite as Vulcan as that. Few did, now or ever.

He would give her one more meeting at the kal'i'farr caves. Perhaps two. Then he would suggest that they both begin searching for choice-mates. Theirs was only one bond among billions. It was not worth anyone's death. But if they continued in the same way they had been, that might well be the resort she was at last driven to.

She might make me a murderer one day; I must not let that occur.

He thought now, walking slowly along the nighttime streets of San Francisco, that it was fortunate indeed that she had at least made her displeasure with their bond clear to him. Had she failed to do so, events subsequent to that last trip to Seleya might have led him to believe he ought to stand firm for a bond with her, regardless of how unsuitable the bond seemed to him. And considering the state of things now, he did not doubt at all that she would go to extremes to be rid of him.

She is too Vulcan, and I am not Vulcan enough - we must not marry.

He paused for a streetlight, not bothering to look both ways when it turned green again.

She would never have forgotten today, and I, human half-breed that I am, gave it no thought at all. . .

But the absence of any other choice but her seemed to weigh him down into the pavement.

Leila. . .

Perhaps she had meant more to him than he had told himself and Chris. At least she had wanted to love him. And. . . perhaps. . . a part of him had wanted to love her in return.

He was so deep in reverie that he nearly walked past his destination, saved only by Chris coughing at him in a way that clearly passed for "subtle" in Chris's mind. It was the only place that sold ice cream along this route - Chris must have guessed it was where he was headed.

Wordlessly, he pushed open the door.

It had been a few weeks since he had been here, but nothing about the spot had changed; A tiny, ultra-modern place called Jade, where everything was so smooth and white and featureless that it might have been dropped straight out of 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was fully automated, empty at this time of night, with only a very low hum of lights and machinery to indicate it was even operational. Impersonal, quiet, and functional - just the way he liked things.

It wasn't cold inside, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chris shiver.

Spock ordered for them all from one of the automated stations - a dark-chocolate and walnut frozen yogurt for Komack, a raspberry and fudge gelato for Chris, and pistachio ice cream with salted caramel swirls for himself. Spock also purchased a pint of the latter in a stasis carton, to take home. He knew that consuming large amounts of the confection - especially in response to an emotional trauma - was considered a Human female's reaction, but, Spock admitted to himself, sometimes there was nothing for it.

My main Human influence has been a female, after all. . .

The whole process took less than three minutes, and then they were all back out on the street with their small plastic cups and spoons.

Chris looked relieved. Spock had to admit it was a sterile little place. But the product was good, and neither man was complaining.

He found his own depression lifting a little too. It was fascinating what ills a bowl of ice cream could cure.

"So, where to now?" the Admiral asked around a bite of frozen yogurt.

"Well, Spock?" Chris looked at him askance.

He swallowed before answering, "I believe you indicated a bar or a club as the next step in this Human ritual, did you not?"

Chris grinned, "Noooo, the next step is "fistfight", but you insisted rather strongly against that step, so I suppose we're skipping it."

"Indeed," he stood a little straighter. "I would therefore suggest the establishment called "The Galactic Arms" - I believe you are a member, Captain?"

"I am. Excellent choice." Chris stepped ahead, making to lead them there. "And it's just the right mix of fun and respectability for you, Spock."

"I see," he said, not entirely convinced. "That is not the impression I received two months, one week, three days and fourteen hours ago."

"What, no minutes and seconds?" asked Komack, with obvious sarcasm.

"I can provide those details if asked, Admiral."

"I'm sure you can, Spock," said Chris, "But I don't quite remember. . . remind me?"

"I am referring to the incident where you called me, saying you needed "a ride home". In actual fact you needed considerably more than that. . ."

"Oh riiight. . . yeah. That was embarrassing." - Chris did not look abashed - "So, if you formed such a bad impression of one of my favorite watering holes, why did you suggest we go there, hmm?"

He wondered how much he should tell Chris about the ritual of gad'r'tas. He had tried to explain earlier, but he had not seemed to want to understand.

Best to keep it basic. "The interior decor is predominantly blue."

The older man's face contorted with profound confusion, "Oh. Um. . . okay. Whatever you. . . want. . . I suppose. . ."

He nodded, not answering any of the Captain's unvoiced questions.

Then he paused, remembering something else, "What about the flitter, Captain?"

"Not a problem," said Chris, grinning and patting his pocket. "My comm. has a five mile radius beckon-call for it. And The Galactic isn't that far away."

Spock nodded again, and raised an eyebrow, "Miles, Captain?"

Chris smirked, half-turning around, "We're still in America, kid. You know that they still call credits "pounds" over in England, right? And they still speak Zulu in South Africa and Spanish in Puerto Rico; kids born in China still grow up with different slang than kids born in India; French accents are still different from Australian accents; our home-grown hybrids of quadrotriticale are still called "wheat", and the front portions of our starships are still called "flying saucers". There's no reason to completely standardize everything."

"I am aware of that, Captain, but I was under the impression that official distances and measurements had been metricized."

"Most things have, but a few haven't," said the Admiral, bemusedly, "Conformity just isn't the All-American way, dont'cha know. We've been rebels so long, it's just kind of a habit now, I suppose."

Chris nodded in agreement.

"Captain, during my first day here, you implied that I was also a rebel, if you will remember."

"Yeah, well, takes one to know one, eh?"

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by Mina suddenly tugging on her tractor-leash, sniffing along edge of the wall they were walking along, and twitching her tail into its "alert" position.

Both the Captain and the Admiral stopped in mid-laugh and looked at her. They were coming up on an alley, and she was making a beeline for the dirty passageway. Chris quickly locked the tractor-leash, not letting her get any closer to the place, and grabbed Spock's bag of ice cream while gesturing at him, pointing and nodding at the doorway.

He barely acknowledged him, straining all his senses towards the seemingly empty portal. He eased right up to the corner, letting just the point of his ear edge over into the passage. He caught some incomprehensible whispering, the rustle of at least two sets of clothing, and the chink of latinum as it was passed from hand to hand. He slowly edged an eye around the corner, expecting to see furtive citizenry in ragged disguises engaging one of the street-level drug transactions that still occurred from time to time. Instead, all he saw was the cold metal wall of a street-dumpster. They must be conducting this transaction on the other side of it. They clearly felt safe enough, and well they might - it nearly filled the passage, effectively cutting off this alleyway as a means of travel, but, fortunately it meant that they could not see him if he got closer. . .

He gestured to the Admiral and Chris, telling them wordlessly to circle the building and guard the other end of the alleyway. As soon as they were gone, he came forward quickly, but silently, and pressed his ear to the tiny gap between wall and dumpster.

The whispers were clearer now, but fragmented, and not in Standard.

". . . this much. No, not for. . ."

". . . te'ver, you are sure? My lord will not. . ."

". . . We only wish. . ."

". . . I will tell him. . ."

And a breeze took the rest of the conversation away. Spock allowed himself a moment of frustration. Even the words he could make out had been said in an atrocious patois of slave-den Orion and trader's Romulan, the sort of dialect that was considered vulgar even for criminals and thugs, but he could clearly distinguish three voices at the very least, one of which was Andorian, he was sure.

The more he thought, the less he liked this situation.

Then the breeze brought an even less encouraging scent to his nostrils. Perfumed Targennian silk, Charjin oils, Harkan fire-brandy, and dried sweat, heavy with the pheromones of a myriad of species. The unmistakable odor of a spice den.

With a silent plea for Chris and Komack to have found their places at the other end of the passage, he took a deep breath, braced himself, and with a great push and a leap, he flipped two meters in the air, and three forward, spinning so he faced his opponents when he landed solidly, on the other side of the dumpster.

The Andorian was standing with his back to the metal wall, and there were three Orions ranged around him, one with his hand braced against the Andorian's throat, and the other two with closed fists and cruel expressions directed at the blue-skinned off-worlder.

They were all so shocked by his arrival that they merely stood and stared at him for a second, the Andorian's skin paling to an even icier blue. The three Orions recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent Spock from immediately dispatching two of them with a well applied Nerve Pinch each. One had been holding an open bag of whitish powder, which instantly spilt as he fell, spreading a pale stain across the dirty ground. Then the Andorian bolted, head down, and ran bullishly - directly into Spock's own newly raised fist. His knuckles connected with the Andorian's skull right beneath one of that unfortunate's antennae. He fell, as instantly unconscious as the two Orions.

The final Orion, also the largest and meanest looking of the lot, showed at least some knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, dancing back and forth, in and out of Spock's range, trying to distract him long enough to get behind him, and bolt out of the alley. Spock kept in tandem with him, not attacking, looking for an opening, any opening, to use a to'tsu'k'hy again. Suddenly the green giant threw a mighty punch, Spock only barely managing to evade it by bending so far back his head nearly hit the ground. . . and there was his chance. He dropped down, slid forward, and clapped his feet on either side of the Orion's ankles. A rolling twist and the huge thug flailed, fell, and bounced face-first off the rough alley wall with a highly disconcerting crunching sound.

Like the others, he was unconscious before he hit the ground, splaying himself ungracefully across the feet and legs of the Andorian.

Spock was on his feet again in moments, suddenly aware of three more presences behind him. He spun. . . but it was Pike and Komack, with Mina straining at her leash for a closer look at the villains, sniffing and growling at the pile of them.

Chris pulled her back to heel, "We have established what kind of ninja you are, Mina. Sit!"

She did. Reluctantly.

Komack grinned.

"Good job, Lieutenant. If you aren't planning on being a self-defense instructor after you graduate, well, you should." Komack's voice was excited, but he calmly took up guard duty at the entrance of the alleyway without being asked. He was brandishing a phaser. "Looks like I'm the only one who thought of one of these tonight," he smirked a little, "I'll wait here while you kids take care of the riff-raff."

Chris handed Mina off to the Admiral, and commenced shaking his head as he opened his communicator, "You really are something else, you know that, kid?"

"I am aware," Spock replied absently, focused observing the tangled bodies of his four opponents.

Orion blood was a purpleish red, and it was oozing from the wreck of the largest Orion's nose, darkening as it dried, making his face look almost like it had been eaten away by Blacktarr slime mold.

It did not at all improve the aspect of his unconscious form.

Spock crouched, gingerly lifting the unspilled portion of the bag of pale-yellow, fluffy powder, and tasted a minute bit with the tip of his little finger.

"Strange. . ."

Chris acknowledged the ETA of whomever he was speaking to, presumably the police, then closed his comm., coming over to stand next to Spock, "Says the guy with Ecto-cooler in his veins - c'mon Spock, what's strange?"

"This is Nine."

"Nine?"

"Yes, the street name for hektan spice - I believe it is a pun on the first syllable. "Hek" transliterated into "heck", with the slang term being a reference to the ninth circle of hell. It is a psychotropic, and the ninth circle of Dante's hell represents treachery - Q.E.D. Also, for some species it can be a euphoric, so perhaps that also contributes to the term - cloud nine, as it were."

Chris blinked. "Okay, it's dope, fine - but I thought we had already assumed that it was. Why is it strange?"

He stood up, carrying the bag a careful distance away from his clothes, "It is Orion in origin, but Orions do not commonly sell it on the streets. There is a very particular method for illegal distribution of this drug, and it usually involves a Romulan ex-patriot posing as a Vulcan doctor to acquire a shipment - hektan is legal on Vulcan because it is harmless to them, except in very high doses, much like aspirin is to Humans - and then the specific use of a Caitian to sell it on the streets."

The Admiral turned around, "Why a Caitian?"

"They are among the few races immune to the ill effects of the drug, which practically ensures they will not become users themselves, and they are also known to have a strong underworld and black market presence."

Chris nodded, "Unlike Vulcans and Romulans, you mean?"

"I have no doubt a Caitian would find it far easier to acquire contacts of the kind that would buy and sell such a product than any Vulcan I have ever met, sir."

"That whole "we can't lie" thing?"

"Indeed."

"And a Romulan ex-pat probably wouldn't be caught dead doing something so publicly illegal as hawking street dope," said Komack, smirking.

"Quite."

"So, maybe the cops caught on to the Caitian thing, and this gang got wise and started using an Andorian."

"No, the Andorian was buying."

"You're sure?"

"Entirely."

Christopher sighed, probably envisioning the amount of paperwork this unfortunate encounter would produce.

"Wait - don't street sellers usually move pretty much solo? Trying to draw less attention?"

"Usually, yes. They may have a child runner or two, but a single adult pusher is most common."

"So, why three pushers, all Orions?"

"I assume they are either a very specific set of enforcers. . . or else. . ."

"Yes. . .?"

Spock shook his head, "It is simply yet another aberrant detail in this incidence, sir."

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, "Okay - how aberrant is this incidence?"

"Very. There have been ten-thousand one-hundred and four recorded arrests worldwide on Terra in the past five years that involve the use and/or distribution of hektan spice. Thirty-one percent involved street-pushers, and ninety-nine point six two percent of those cases involved a Caitian. Conversely, only three point one percent of the whole total have been successfully traced back to their Orion suppliers, and only five point three percent have even had an Orion linked to the case in any way whatsoever."

"How come you know so much about this?" the Admiral wondered aloud, "Doesn't seem your forte. . ."

"You could say I have a vested interest, sir. My father was the primary negotiator for the legalization of the drug on Vulcan three standard years ago, and he personally finalized the trade agreement between Vulcan and Orion concerning it. It was hoped the legalization on Vulcan would reduce the illegal use of it elsewhere, but, unfortunately, the reverse has occurred. If it were not such a valuable drug in Vulcan medicine, I believe my father would lobby to have it illegalized again."

"Hmph."

"You did ask, sir. . ."

Komack turned back around to guard position.

"You're right though," said Chris, "You don't usually see an Orion on the streets. They usually ply their trades indoors. . . whatever those trades may be." He prodded one of the still unconscious Orions with the toe of his boot, "Odd. Very odd indeed."

At last, three glossy black cop cars pulled up to their location. The somberly clad men came up to them, exuding competence, and they effortlessly took charge of the situation.

Spock handed the bag of hektan to the highest ranking officer - a D.I. by the color bars on his shoulder - and repeated most of his conversation with Chris to him.

The officer nodded and thanked him, then turned to speak with the Admiral.

Komack quickly monopolized the young Inspector, drawing him over to the pile of unconscious non-Humans, and speaking to him in murmured sentences.

Pike, ambling out of the alley, handed Spock's ice cream back to him, but was clearly more interested in watching Komack do his thing.

"Didn't I say it, Spock? Always bring a nice admiral along when there's trouble - best thing on earth for resolving inconveniences. Remember?"

Spock did not sigh. "It is impossible for me to have forgotten, Chris."

"Well, make sure you don't." Pike leaned indolently against the clean outer brick wall of the building, simply waiting, unworried and almost uninterested.

Spock only briefly wondered why, for he had much to think upon, at least. There was certain to be an inquiry, statements taken, arrests, interviews, possibly an identity parade, forms to fill out. . .

"Well, that's it, kids," said Komack, coming up silently next to them, "I'll go back to HQ with these gentlemen, and you two can go on to The Galactic, or whatever you want."

Spock managed to conceal his shock, but only just. "But. . . Admiral. . ."

Yet another untranslatable look passed between the Captain and the Admiral.

"Now, don't you worry, Spock," said Komack, unnecessarily, "You can come down to the station tomorrow or the next day and make a statement - there's no need to give up on a night out for the sake of some hoodlums. I've got this." Then he winked, and patted Spock on the shoulder.

"C'mon Spock," said Chris, turning away down the street, "Galactic's this way."

Deciding to abandon his confusion, Spock fell into step with Chris, once more striding along on the warm, clean, civilized portion of the streets.

It would have been a pleasant walk, save for that every few minutes, Pike was stifling a laugh.

"Is there something the matter, Christopher?" asked Spock, thinking he perhaps already knew what the answer was.

Chris finally laughed outright, "Oh, nothing, nothing - it's just funny, is all."

"What is funny, Captain?"

Chris jerked his thumb in the direction of the receding scene of Orions being packed away in the back of the cops' hovercar, "Just. . . well, we did manage to get you into a fistfight after all, didn't we?"

---

Spock decided he liked The Galactic. It was a surprisingly easy place to get used to, if you came to it with few expectations and an open mind.

The whole building was an oval, and inside, the very center was a large, circular, and very modern dance floor. Radiating out from this, in arcs that cleverly suggested the galactic spiral arms which gave the place its name, were two quite incredibly well-stocked bars, two rows of booth seating, and four rows of tables and chairs. Everything was either covered with midnight blue plasti-leather, or made of a clear plastic resin. There were faux-crystal "stars" everywhere, even on the drinking glasses. The ceiling of the place had a constantly coruscating lightshow of tiny colored lights, and each booth and table had a pendant lamp that looked like a blue dwarf star.

Despite being a popular destination for rambunctious youth - and equally frequented by the young at heart, like Chris - the place had a respectable air about it that Spock appreciated.

It was nowhere near the Cave Of The Ancients, and the blue glowing things here had nothing on the Serene Stone, or the Katric Ark, but, for the Scion of Surak, on gad'r'tas, it would have to do.

The dance floor was mostly empty tonight, but both bars were well tenanted. Pike had chosen a somewhat secluded booth for them, facing one of the bars, but well enough away from the dance floor to be able to talk without Sal Vitteo's latest dance-club beat making it difficult to hear each other.

They both ordered a drink by the numbers shown in a holo above the table, and sat back to wait in silence.

Over the loudspeakers, Sal wailed something about love, and trust in a time of war. . .

Spock's mind flashed back to that afternoon, and the last fever dream T'Pring had given to him. She had been so close to him he could smell her hair, as fresh as the newly sprouted spines of an ic'tan tree, and he could sense her feelings, as bright and as curious and as delighted as a Human child's first look at the stars. In that moment he had loved her, yearned for her, found all he needed and wanted in the simple touch of his fingers to her skin. . . and then the dream had broken, and it was nothing but a dream. He had wanted to retch.

The same choking revulsion washed over him now. Could he never remove her presence from him? He wanted to want, wanted to love and enjoy the presence of his bondmate, and sometimes, deep in her dreams, he did. But would it never last beyond the false promises of the Fires? Those feelings, those wants and desires, were they nothing more than a dream she forced upon him?

Pike's voice reached him through his wondering.

"Hey, Earth to Spock - where are you?"

He blinked. "I am here Captain."

"Nope, you're somewhere far away - ah."

Chris's drink arrived, and he took a grateful sip of what Spock assumed by the smell was a strong single-malt whiskey.

He inhaled deeply, considering a moment before asking, "Captain, do you think it is possible to be bewitched by a woman you do not want?"

Chris blew out his cheeks, "Well, I dunno. You mean Leila?

Spock repressed a sigh. "No, Captain, I do not."

"Well," said Chris, idly scratching his cheek, "taken literally, being "bewitched" is not usually a voluntary thing, if you know what I mean, so. . . yeah. I guess it's possible to be bewitched by someone you hate, sure."

"Hate is, perhaps, too strong a word."

A strange wave of adrenaline washed through him. That was a lie.

He looked at Chris, and Chris seemed to know it was too.

"Uh-huh. So, why even ask me?"

"It has been said - 'Infatuation may not be voluntary, but love is always a choice.'"

"Huh. Who said that?

Spock was sorry he had spoken. Explaining the originator of the saying would be even more difficult to explain than why he had quoted him. But there was nothing for it. "Kallin Ik'kar."

"Sounds Vulcan."

"He was. He has been dead for over eighteen hundred years."

Chris smirked. "Known for his charming ways, was he?"

Recalling the actual meaning of Kallin's title of "The Strong", Spock reluctantly agreed. "That is one way to put it. . ."

"And was he ever "bewitched" by someone he did not like?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"So, why bring it up?"

"It. . . does not matter. Please disregard my inquiry."

"Really? You sure?" The captain looked at him keenly, "So you're telling me this has nothing to do with your little "I forgot a holiday and now I must punish myself" episode back at dinner?"

"Well. . ."

"Yes, Spock?"

"I. . ."

"Yes. . .?"

"T'Pring would not have forgotten. That is all."

Pike's brow furrowed, "T'Pring? Who is she?"

Spock allowed himself a sigh of regret. "My wife."

Chris's drink stopped on the way to his lips. "Your. . . wait. Your WHAT?"

"Perhaps that is also too strong a term. She is my ko-kugalsu - my wife-to-be. You would say "fiancee", but it is more than that to us. We are bonded."

"Wow, Spock, I. . . I. . . really, I can't. . . I just. . . wow. Really. Wow." Chris shook his head, his expression almost completely blank.

"I take it you are. . . surprised. . . by this revelation?"

Chris gave a strange, strained laugh, "No Spock, "surprised" isn't the word at all. Flipping flabbergasted, maybe, or damn stunned, perhaps, but surprised? No. No. . . not that. . . " He trailed off, looking at Spock, but with an odd stare that seemed to look past him as well.

Disconcerting.

"Fascinating. I had thought you were more fully conversant in Vulcan traditional culture. No matter. Do you wish me to explain that we have mutually agreed that our bond is dysfunctional and superfluous, and have both consented to the other searching for a choice-mate?"

"Oh." Chris sat up straighter, his eyes refocusing. "OH? Oh really? That is a MASSIVE relief. . ."

"Indeed. I have not yet found an individual who is compatible with my standards and tastes, but I am perfectly free to continue the search for one such."

"So all those girls I've sent your way the past two years. . ."

"Were welcome in the sense that they allowed me to begin to evaluate the parameters of my personal preferences regarding Human women."

"Thanks? I think? Or should I say you're welcome?" Chris mimed wiping sweat away from his forehead.

"You may say whatever you wish to say regarding them. I have little comment save that I value your opinion and would prefer to continue my search with you as an adviser - but less so with you as a. . . procurer. . ."

"Good." Chris shuddered, from realization or relief Spock could not tell. "I might be your Captain, and I'm willing be a father-figure stand-in, but I do draw the line at pimp."

Spock remembered Chris's "we'll buy you some 'dessert'" statement from earlier, "I would never have allowed that to happen, Christopher."

Chris looked unconvinced, but just then Spock's drink came. The Captain looked at his choice of beverage with some distaste.

"Hot apple cider? C'mon Spock, have something a little stronger."

Spock adopted a reassuring tone. "Methyl-hydroxychalcone acts on the Vulcan system much like caffeine does on the Human system."

"You mean cinnamon?"

"Yes." He took a drink. The cider was not replicated and the cinnamon was fresh.

Acceptable.

Chris looked incredulous, "Cinnamon gives you a buzz?"

"I do not believe I said that. . ."

"No, but you need to relax, my friend - not get all hyped-up. I'm just trying to do what's best. . ."

Spock sighed a little, "If it is your intention to attempt to trick me into consuming chocolate, may I remind you that I have two advanced degrees in organic-xenochemistry?"

Chris's eyes twinkled, "Well, this is The Galactic - I was thinking of some yerba maté - they grow a dynamite hybrid type on the Rigel colony now, and it's this place's specialty - you ever had a good maté, Spock?"

Spock deliberatly ignored the look in his friend's eyes, "I am certain you are aware that maté also contains the intoxicant theobromine, as does most Terran sourced tea, Pataxte, Angustifolium, Guarana, Cola acuminata, Coffea arabica. . ."

"Yes, yes, okay," said Chris, rolling his eyes, "Never get into a substance constituency argument with an organic chemist - but what would be so wrong with loosening up a teensy bit?"

"If you will cease pestering me, I will order an iced green tea for myself, and a whole bottle of single malt whiskey for you."

"So you can drink me under the table? No, thank you. Been there, tried that, not doing it again."

Spock raised an eyebrow, "Your error was in assuming that tequila would intoxicate me, which it does not. I assure you, my tolerance to Vulcan intoxicants is, in actuality, rather low. A glass of Terran iced tea would effect me as strongly as a comperable amount of whiskey would affect you, even though the constituent amount of theobromine in the tea is far less than the alcohol in the whiskey."

"Really? You're that much of a lightweight?"

"I have had little practical experience, given that I grew up on Vulcan. Nearly all intoxicating substances are highly controlled there."

"I know. Except for beer," the older man smacked his lips at the memory, "Best beer in the quadrant."

"On Vulcan, alcohol is not an intoxi - "

"You know," said Chris, interrupting as usual, "It really is too bad more of your land isn't arable - you could make enough to buy half the galaxy on the strength of just that beer. It's a tragedy that stuff is so unknown. And the wine. At least the Federation Wine and Spirits Society has finally caught on to hirat wine - you kept that a secret long enough."

Spock took another sip of the cider and resolutely held back his frustration. "It is much less a case of our keeping these things a secret, and far more the fact that for a long while it was not understood that adults would care for them."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Both are generally considered more suitable for children."

Pike spluttered into his drink, "Wait. . . what?"

Spock nodded slowly, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the mug, "On Vulcan, beer is called "cultured grain" and is usually eaten, much like porridge, for the increased levels of b-vitamins. It is the most common breakfast given to young children. The filtered form you so enjoyed is customarily the only nourishment that is sent with children on their khas-wan journey."

Chris shook his head. "And the wine?"

"Fermented hirat juice is considered an ideal drink for children, seeing it contains high levels of antioxidants and phytonutrients, and given that the alcohol neutralizes most bacterial infestations found naturally in wild-sourced water - "

"Sure sure," Chris cut him off with a bored look and a wave of his hand, "What was that rum-like stuff that put me under the first time I tried it? The 180 proof stuff infused with honey - oh you know!"

"Sloh'ghaf-tor."

"Yeah. That." He sighed a little, "They don't sell it here, do they?"

"No, it is a controlled substance on Terra - the glucose content expedites the absorption of the alcohol into Terran bloodstreams - even a milliliter can cause a major deleterious effect on the Terran metabolism. . ."

"True - but have you ever thought how much fun that deleterious effect is?"

"I have. Your devotion to intoxicants has always been a source of morbid interest to me."

"All I know is that there aren't many cadets who can out-drink me - they respect that about me, you know." Chris paused a minute and gave him an oddly appraising look, "You might consider working up your resistance to a few intoxicants yourself, Spock. You never know when you might accidentally ingest more than you can handle - then where would you be?"

"A surprisingly logical point, Captain." Somewhat absently, Spock wondered if the greater part of his surprise was an effect of the cinnamon.

"Well, that's me - I have points in surprisingly logical places." He leered openly at a waitress passing their table.

Spock gave a slight grimace, "I am now considering ordering a k'vass simply so I might be enabled to forget the crudely sexual overtones of that statement."

Chris made a face, "But k'vass tastes like mild rum-punch. . ."

"It also happens to contain both theobromine and methyl-hydroxychalcone."

"Wait - a downer AND an upper? In one drink?"

Spock held back a sigh. "No. Theobromine is not a "downer" to Vulcans; rather, it chemically relaxes our mental controls, and such a thing can cause the entire spectrum of reactive emotional states. Also, cinnamon is not an "upper" so much as it is an intensifier." He finished the small mug he had ordered, wondering now if it had been a good idea. . .

Chris whistled lightly, then grinned, "Sounds dangerous. . ."

"It is the only commonly served intoxicant on Vulcan."

Chris shrugged, "Hey, whatever it takes to get you to loosen up, son," he smirked, not realizing how uncomfortable Spock was already, "Anyway - I've got some more double entendres in my back pocket. You want another?"

Spock raised his eyebrow again, "No. I have - I believe the phrase is "heard this one before" - and I do not desire you to "give me one" in any interpretation of the term."

Chris chuckled, "Your problem is that you're just too much fun to tease."

"And I believe your problem is that you enjoy it too much."

This time Chris laughed heartily, "Trust me, Spock, all it's going to take for you to find a new girl is for you to look for someone who enjoys teasing you too much."

He tilted his head slightly, "Perhaps part of the problem is that I do not want a 'girl'."

Chris started, staring at him confusedly. "Really? You've never indicated that before. . ."

"You misunderstand. I do not want a childish or a shallow relationship, as is indicated by the appellation "girl" in Terran Standard." Chris's eyes relaxed, indicating he understood. "My desire is for a far more mature and permanent experience."

"Oh." Pike finished his drink in a long, slow sip, then set the glass down, and ran a fingertip contemplatively along the rim, asking his next question quite cautiously. "Is that why you broke up with Leila?"

Spock inhaled, ready to refuse to answer, but then decided that Chris, of all people, might actually be a help in this matter, if he could get him to understand it slightly better.

"In an overly simplified sense. . . yes," he said, just as cautiously. "My. . . friendship. . . with Leila proved something to me." He paused, uncertain for a second, but then forged on, "It proved that I am too much of an alien still." Spock raised a hand to forestall Chris's inevitable reassurance on this point, "If I can let a simple friendship with a Human woman - with whom, I remind you, I did not have constant face-to-face or close quarters contact - if I can let such a relationship evolve so easily - and more, unknowingly - into an unrequited romantic relationship, then what hope do I have of peaceably surviving a five-year mission in an enclosed environment with a predominantly Human crew?"

He saw understanding dawning at last in his friend's eyes.

"And do not think that I am unaware that romantic relationships are a virtual certainty. Five years is a long time, and a starship is a small place."

"True, but. . ."

"I am not Human, Chris - not all, perhaps not even half - but I am highly aware of Humans' value. I cannot continue to be the cause of pain - to anyone, but especially to my colleagues - if I can at all prevent it." Chris raised his eyebrows at that, but still nodded like he agreed with the sentiment. "I do not yet deserve a place on a Starfleet vessel, Captain - certainly not First Officer. And I will not deserve it until I can, at the very least, recognize a far broader spectrum of Human emotional cues - and from women especially."

Chris nodded, understanding, "Hence your request to move to the Academy dorms?"

"Yes. And my presence here tonight."

Chris sighed deeply, "Well, I knew you were a heartthrob, but I never imagined things had progressed to this state."

"A "heartthrob", Captain?" Both his eyebrows raised of their own accord, "I was unaware that my presence induced cardiac arrhythmia. . ."

Pike smiled, "It means girls like you."

"I was aware of that. . ."

"No, I mean, really, really like you. Including most of the ones in relationships with other men - maybe even the ones in relationships with other women. And a good cross-section of men do too - even some straight ones. You seem tailor-made for crushes. . . I don't think it'd be an exaggeration to say that about 75% of the cadets currently enrolled at the Academy are more than a little starry-eyed over you. And don't get me started on the teachers. . ." Chris stopped. Spock assumed it was because a distressed look had been growing on his face that he was somewhat desperately trying to control. . . but it seemed he simply had no power to prevent Chris's words from completely unnerving him.

Chris continued, more gently, "It has nothing to do with your intentions, Spock, it just means you're one attractive sentient being. You can hardly blame Leila, and you can't blame yourself." Pike smirked a little, "Though you might be able to blame the cut of the cadet's uniform trousers. . ." He laughed, presumably at the sudden blush on Spock's cheeks and ears.

"My. . . trousers?"

"Yep, never underestimate the power of a monumental ass."

"That does not seem like a compliment. . ."

Chris laughed, "Oh, lighten up a little, Spock - It's just genetics and fate, really."

"But. . ." There was marked distress in his voice too. He could not continue his sentence.

"Look, don't take it so hard, son, it's actually natural - here on Earth, anyway - for there to be a few totally drop-dead gorgeous people walking around, for folks to look at, dream over, crush on, and then forget as we mature and meet people who we're actually attracted to, for much more stable reasons. You just happened to end up on the other side of the equation than most folks do - personally I'm impressed you want to do something about it before you accept a posting. Very professional and thoughtful of you."

"It is. . . a logical choice. . ." His own voice seemed to come from far away.

"Of course it is. And trust me - the most effective thing you can do right now is to get another girlfriend."

He snapped back to earth, "Leila was not my girlfriend."

"Maybe not to you she wasn't, but to everyone else - including her, by the way - she was."

"Regardless, I do not wish to repeat the experience."

"Even if you do, you won't."

Spock tilted his head, "I am confused."

Pike sighed, "Every woman is different, Spock. Trust me, I may not be an expert at romance, but even I know that. No two relationships are ever going to be the same, and by extension, no two experiences will ever be exactly similar. Whatever happened with Leila, it won't happen again just like that. Apart from everything else, you've learned from the experience, right?"

"Indeed, Captain, I have."

"Well, there you go then." Chris leaned back into the faux-leather seat. "The only thing that can stop you from having another. . . what should I call it?. . . "romantically complex non-familial type relationship", is you."

Spock considered for a moment. "Indeed."

At that moment, a particularly striking blond walked up to the section of the bar nearest them, and sat down, apparently alone. This portion of the bar was almost empty - no one noticed her except Chris. He noticed her, of course - it would have been slightly incredible if he hadn't - and looked at Spock and inclined his head in her direction.

"Well, that's fortuitous. What are you waiting for? Go on, kid."

"Captain, I do not think - "

"You can't not have a conversation with someone because you're afraid to hurt them, Spock." Pike tapped a refill order into the PADD embedded into the tabletop. "A person's emotional state doesn't belong to you - you can effect it, of course, but how they act or react to something is entirely their own responsibility. Just don't be a jerk - that's your responsibility. Now go talk to her - nicely. And I know you know how to, so don't play dumb."

Spock's heart sank. He wondered if it was a Vulcan reaction or a Human one. He closed his eyes for a moment, and decided there was nothing for it.

"Yes sir."

"And I don't want to see you again until sometime late tomorrow afternoon."

"Captain. . ."

"Go on, Spock. Scram."

Spock almost shook his head, but did leave the table, slowly approaching the bar. Eventually he took a seat close to the tall, lonely looking blonde - but not too close.

He ordered a White Russian with nutmeg, and sipped it while the woman two seats over ordered a whole set of flavored Cardassian Tequila shots. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she sprinkled sugar on the back of her hand, downed a poisonously green shot, licked the sugar, and bit into a wedge of kiwi fruit. He continued to watch as she did the same with a glowing pink shot, Kosher salt, and half of a strawberry. When she reached for the unnaturally bright purple shot with pink salt and passion fruit, he surprised himself by actually turning in her direction and asking - "If it is allowed, may I know your name?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, and took the shot before answering.

"Christine."

Her voice was very abrupt, her tone the exact opposite of entirely cheerful.

"My name is Spock."

She reached for the fluorescent yellow shot with brown sugar and slice of quince. "Must be jolly for you."

He said nothing.

She drank the orange shot with black salt and a chunk of persimmon before she turned to him again.

"I'm sorry," she said, almost seeming to mean it, "I'm just a terribly belligerent drunk, I suppose."

"Interesting. Belligerent is not the word I would have used." He finished his drink and ordered another.

"Really?" she took the last shot - an acidic-looking aquamarine thing with gray salt and a slice of Cardassian pear. "What word would you have used then?"

He considered a moment, "Sorrowful, I think."

She clicked her tongue and nodded, the gesture neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "All right, smarty," she said, and pointed to his drink, "How about a Cardassian Sunrise instead of that old junk?"

He shook his head, "I find "this old junk" to be more palatable, but thank you."

She snorted, and ordered one for herself. Then she paused a long time. He let her be silent.

While he waited, he contemplated the merits and demerits of long, elegant nails painted ironblood-red.

"You must think me terribly Human," she said, finally, her voice low for the first time, and almost soft.

"No," he said, decidedly, "But I do think something terribly Human has happened to you." There was clearly no other reason for a woman like this to be drinking, alone, at this time of night, at this time of the week.

She snorted again before taking a long pull of her fiery-orange and red drink. "Got it in one, buddy." She slapped the now half-empty glass down.

"My name is - "

"I heard your name," she snapped, "I just don't like names tonight, 'k?"

"I understand."

But he didn't.

He understood the concept of "drinking buddies", of course, but he had always assumed such were nearly always longtime friends, or at least acquaintances fairly well-known to each other. If "buddies" could also be strangers, as it now appeared they could, then what sort of emotional footing could be expected in such an encounter?

He also understood the concept of a "one night stand" - this was not the first time Pike had tried to "set him up" by ordering him to talk to a woman - but physical intimacy was not something he often desired, if, in fact, he ever truly had. He was not sure. But he was sure that he had made no "come ons" as he understood the term, and she seemed to be aware and accepting of that fact.

Exactly as Leila was at first. . .

Now, this woman named Christine was undeniably physically attractive, but it was just as obvious that her mental state was, at present, quite turbulent.

So, why would she name him her friend, and then immediately afterwards declare that she didn't want to hear his name?

He wondered if this was what Humans called "mixed signals".

"Wanna share a pitcher of the new Slusho Mixers?" she said, her Cardassian Sunrise gone, but her speech only slightly blurry. "I hear they're good - for the price, hey?"

He agreed, somewhat reluctantly. Most beverages under the Ferengi brand Slusho were indeed affordable, but to his palate they were bitter, chemically laced drinks, more artificial than artistic. Very probably Human taste receptors reacted favorably to the brew, while Vulcan taste receptors did not. It was a logical assumption - Ferengi products were rarely tailored to Vulcan sensibilities. He quickly ordered an iced lemonade for a "chaser".

She ordered the pitcher and two glasses. She also moved over into the seat directly next to him.

"So, what do you do?" She leaned closer to him, put her chin on her hand, and looked expectant.

Her eyes were more blue than Leila's had been, but her hair was the same soft, pale gold, and her scent was similar - floral and feminine, but with an undertone of spice, of strength. . .

"I am an employee of Starfleet."

She blinked and sat up. "Right. I shouldn't have asked, sorry."

"It is of no consequence."

He had never had someone "blow hot and cold" like this before. Normally, in his experience, women either made an all-out play for his favor, or studiously ignored him. Or they did both, come to think of it, and in that order. He was not sure if Christine intrigued him, impressed him, or so appalled him that he wanted to run far, far away, and as soon as possible.

The Mixers came, and she poured for both of them. He took a very small, unpleasant sip, followed quickly by the lemonade, while she drank the shaved-ice concoction so quickly as to give herself a headache.

"Oooooh," she moaned, rubbing her forehead and temples, "I always do that." Then she giggled. "What an idiot!" She looked over at him, her teeth flashing as she grinned.

Spock caught his breath.

She could not know - of course she was unaware - but what she was doing, this touching of her meld-points and these displays of emotion - to a Vulcan it was the equivalent of a "strip tease". He had seen other Human and non-Vulcan women do these things before, of course, and it had not effected him to any important degree, given that they were of a different biological culture - naturally touching their own faces and expressing their momentary emotional state would not carry the same visceral impact that it did to his race and culture.

But still. . .

Given how closely Christine resembled Leila, both in looks and in scent, and given how overwhelming her emotional turmoil clearly was at this time, it was only wisdom for him to remove himself from this situation.

He half stood, saying, "It has been most pleasant, but - "

She interrupted, "You don't like the Mixers! I'm sorry, I should have asked," she appropriated the serving she had given him, "How about something else - a pineapple daiquiri, maybe?" When he did not refuse, she tapped the order into the bar, then hefted her glass of Mixers, "And I promise to slow down - fair?"

He sat down again, slowly, "I am not well-disposed towards tropical fruits generally, but I find pineapple to be. . . occasionally acceptable."

She grinned, and sipped her Mixers, not saying anything more for quite a long while.

He was relieved, and turned his mind to other things.

Three-quarters of the way through planning his study schedule for his Advanced Statistics final next month, she spoke up again.

"You ever get dumped by someone?" He looked up, noticing she was more than nine-tenths of the way through the whole pitcher of Mixers. She blushed suddenly, "Sorry, I mean I know we all have, of course, but have you ever been really, literally just dumped? *Boom*, like that, no discussion, no explanation, just. . . gone?"

He would have found her question too personal, save for the fact that the unsteady look in her eyes indicated a high probability that she would not remember this encounter by tomorrow.

"Indeed." On an impulse of his own, he raised his almost untouched daiquiri.

"Well then," she raised the last of the Mixers and crashed her glass into his, "Here's to the dumped!" Then she slugged back the last of what was in her glass, "Now then. . ." She trailed off, giving him a silly, happy, fuzzy sort of a look that made him several different types of uncomfortable. "Now. . . now then. . ." she tried again, "Do, you want, to, to take me home?"

He rose. "That would be wise," he said, taking her arm to help her up.

"Wow," she said, exaggeratedly amazed, "You really. . . really tall." She leaned up against him, tottering on her high heels, "Mmm, and warm too, wow. . ."

"Please tell me your home address."

She giggled, slightly hysterically. "Hmm - no."

"Christine, I must take you home."

She clung to his arm. "Ahh, yes."

"I must therefore know your home address."

She giggled again, "No."

He did not understand this game.

"Christine. . ."

But she was not listening to him, instead nudging her face behind the lapel of his leather jacket.

With a silent plea for forgiveness, he touched two fingers to the pulse point at her wrist. Her thoughts rushed past him, a flowery tangled blur, but it only took a delicate scan of her surface consciousness to find what he needed. Then he led her slowly outside, still giggling and nuzzling his jacket.

As chance would have it, the only available public transport at that moment was not the usual green-striped automated flitter, but a classic throwback checkered-yellow taxi, with four wheels and a driver. Spock shrugged. It would suffice.

But it seemed Christine would not let go of him, so he was obliged to maneuver himself into the car, as well as her. He gave the driver her address, not looking up from her silly, and now rather messy, expression.

"Christine," he said, gently, trying to understand, "It is not my intention to - "

"Damn Korby!" she hissed, then grabbed his neck and ears, aggressively attaching her mouth to his.

He managed not to shove her off him, or do anything else rash that might damage her, but slowly, by reacting at little as possible, he gradually got her to disengage.

As soon as he was free, she collapsed against his side and commenced to cry, quite stormily.

This, while not exactly welcome, was at least somewhat expected, and he knew the motions to make. An arm around her shoulders, and a tissue appeared to suffice.

Her tears were nearly spent when they pulled up at her apartment complex. Telling the driver to wait for him, he led her safely upstairs, managed to get her to say her password and scan her palmprint to get into her apartment, and had removed her shoes before he braced himself to ask the final question.

"Where is your bedroom, Christine?"

She laughed through the remains of her tears, reaching out and touching the side of his neck, "Pretty Vulcan. . ." she murmured, abstractedly.

He had not wanted to search her home, but he swiftly decided there was nothing else to do. Three rooms later, he found her bedroom, placed her under the covers, and was about to leave when she gripped his hand.

"Don' go," she mumbled sleepily.

"I must," he said, gently trying to remove his hand.

"Stay. . ."

"I cannot. . ."

Through the touch of her fingers he could feel her drifting off to sleep, her mind finally relaxing, releasing its turmoil for a time. He felt her become soft, gauzy, dissipating. . .

And then he felt something else. Her mind was reaching out to his.

Not again.

He could feel a bond beginning to form. Her mind was trying to connect to his somehow - just as Leila's had done. For the first time he saw the mental signs of a Human-initiated bond, and for the first time he was able to prevent it. The tendrils that came from her mind were a completely different color than anything he had seen before. They were the same color as the background "sound" of the universe that every Vulcan had for a backdrop to his mind. No wonder he had not known how Leila had initiated a bond with him. The mind-tendrils were thin, and unaware, rooted in her subconscious, but they were still strong, and very real. He blocked them before they ever touched his katra. They turned away, defeated by a simple mental wall. Christine would never have to face the burden of a bond with him.

He did not know whether to shout for joy, or weep in utter despair.

No matter. She was asleep now, his hand was free, and his duty was accomplished.

Then, a crazy impulse overtook him, and he leaned forward, gently touching her mouth with his.

It was the kiss he had never given Leila, and could never give to T'Pring.

Then his heart smote him once again. She was drunk. And asleep. He had not the least right to still be here.

He left, and asked the taxi driver to take him back to the Galactic.

---

Chris was not pleased to see him.

"Now, what did I say about me seeing you again before tomorrow afternoon?"

Spock held his face impassive. "She was intoxicated, Captain. Highly. I saw her home." He sat down and ordered a glass of water.

"Ah." Chris nodded, only slightly disappointed, "Good call."

"Indeed." This was not the first time he had seen that precise disappointment on Chris's face either - one day he would muster the courage to ask the older man just exactly what benefit Humans derived from their interest other people's intimate lives. "May I now impose upon you for transportation to Hill House? I need to prepare for my relocation to the Academy dorms in the morning."

"You want to move tomorrow, Spock?"

"If it means I will not have to experience another evening such as this, then yes."

Pike smirked, "You didn't enjoy your night out, then?"

He took a sip of water, "Let us say that I am relieved that this Human ritual of yours is completed, Captain."

Chris chuckled, "Well, I think I can expedite the room-requisition order, anyway. The Dean of Housing is a friend of mine."

"I do not believe we have been introduced."

"You've seen him, if nothing else," Chris shrugged a little, "His name's Heit Paalach. He's a Zakdorn, very efficient. Nice guy too. I'll introduce you at the next campus-wide chess tournament. You'd like him, I think."

"I recognize the name. He has won the campus tournament five times."

"Yes, he has. But he hasn't even bothered to enter the past two, three times. Too busy, I guess. I'll convince him to come back - he's good enough to beat even you, I'm pretty sure."

"A new challenge would be most welcome."

Chris laughed. "Yeah, I'm not much of an opponent, am I?"

"On the contrary, Captain, you often play in an intuitive manner that is quite surprising."

"You mean reckless?" Pike smirked.

"It can be that, at times. . ."

"Well, anyway, I'll make sure he sets you up with a good place."

Spock raised his glass in salute, "My thanks, Christopher."

Chris's eyes gleamed, "Well, you know what they say - 'Friends help you move, but real friends help you move bodies.'"

Spock blinked. "I sincerely hope that was an example of Terran humor, Captain. . ."

"It was," Pike sighed, "You know, you might consider trying to be less of a kill-joy sometimes."

"I will investigate the term."

Chris looked unbelieving. "You don't know what a "kill-joy" is?"

"Other than the literal meaning, no."

"Well, fortunately or not, this one is pretty straightforward. . . "

"That is encouraging."

Christopher shook his head, then reluctantly stood, handing Spock's pint of ice cream to him and nudging with his foot beneath the table to wake Mina. "Whelp. Let's get you home."

Spock paused for a half second before following Pike out. He had said "home" so easily. Home. Not "house", but home. Ostensibly there was no place like it - it was where one's heart resided.

Such an easy word to say. . . too easy.

For himself, he had no idea where home was. . .

---

He was not tired.

The night was well along, but he had no inclination to sleep.

He had three boxes of school-related items packed, as well as one small refrigerator bag of fresh fruits and vegetables, and two boxes of recreational books and other items. Tomorrow morning he would pack what clothes he needed and what personal items he wished to take to the dorms with him. His ka'athyra was in its case, and he had brought in the large potted d'lechu that T'Pau had sent to him last year.

He placed the genuine-paper bound boxed-set Space Trilogy by C. S. Lewis he had recently acquired into the appropriate box, then sat down on the couch, at a loss for what to do next.

He was not tired.

It had been a major relief to return here tonight and find that all the ghosts of memory that had so oppressed him last week had fled by this time.

The sight of the clock in the hallway had not triggered the painful memories of his first visit here as a child, and the crock pot in the kitchen had not triggered his memories of when Leila had cooked dinner for him.

Nevertheless, he was eager to be away.

A strange urgency was upon him - as though this night's adventures had somehow changed him, and this house, ideal at it still was in many ways, no longer fit him.

Perhaps he had simply grown up a little.

He decided to take a shower. Very likely there would not be time in the morning, so doing so now was logical.

Besides, he smelled of dance clubs and alley floors.

As hot water flowed around him for the second time that day, he considered T'Pring. Again. If dissolving the bond he had with her had not been essential before, it most certainly was now. He was thankful for Christopher's made-up Human "ritual" for this at least - it had forced him out of his routine, and had shown him how little progress he had in fact made during his sojourn among Humanity.

He picked up the th'laaxk'sa soap he had so missed this afternoon. The scent of the lather washed across his consciousness, then slammed onto his katra like a waterfall pounding upon a stone.

A stinging flood of memories that were not his own rose before him.

He was a child, young and unaware, reaching across a t'hy'la bond, rebuffed by cold, insistent silence.

He was a teenager, frightened by a new thing, facing death or madness for the first time.

He was a youth, proud and strong, unwilling or unable to admit to confusion, and so very alone.

He was an adult, living an empty life, and always would, for the stupid and ugly reason that he always had.

The scent faded, and one of his own memories surfaced, reflecting itself through the bond-shield.

Sa-kugalsu. . .

Suddenly, somehow, the anger, the hurt, the distrust. . . the hate he bore for her flowed out of his fingertips and down the drain. At last, he understood.

For the first time in two years, he felt clean.

With a sigh of relief he dried himself, and began to dress for bed.

His stomach growled.

It was a fallacy to say that alcohol had no effect on Vulcans, because it very much did - the effects were simply different than the ones experienced by Humans. On Vulcan, alcohol was a known appetite stimulant, and an important aid in water-retention, much like salt was to the Human system.

He should not be hungry at this time of night, but that did not change the fact that he was.

He was half dressed, and his hair was wet, but that did not matter. He was downstairs in moments, pouring himself some soymilk, spreading some almond butter on shu'vasaya flatbread, and almost luxuriating in the familiarity of the flavors and textures.

Ah, but what he wouldn't give for Amanda to be here, sharing in this "midnight snack" with a mischievous grin and a fairy story to speed him back to bed.

He glanced casually at the stairs, halfway done with his impromptu meal, and already thinking about a meditation session before bed. He looked away. Looked again. He saw. . .

He saw. . .

He blinked.

He saw. . .

He saw a girl with her dark brown hair in a long swinging braid down her back, and glowing grey eyes like T'Pring's, only bright and joyful, with an expression like Amanda's. She was racing down the stairs, eager to talk to him.

"Great-grandmother has named me her heir, sa-mekh. . ."

It was impossible, but still, he saw her. Heard her.

Leaving his half-eaten food, he ran back into the kitchen, and there, in his mind's eye, he saw a boy, tall like him, and with his pointed ears, but with wavy dark gold hair where his was smooth and black; and the youth looked at him with eyes so blue that one at least of his parents could not possibly be Vulcan. . .

"Mother has asked me to make dinner tonight, Father. Can you aid me in properly preparing her most preferred recipes?"

He bolted upstairs to his bedroom, feverishly packing his clothes. He must get out of this house. . . the memories. . .

No. Not memories.

They were visions of what had never been. Could never be.

He blinked, and a vision of Leila coalesced behind him, her slender arms twining around his body, her face pressed into his neck.

He stood stock still, waiting.

"I can't wait to meet your mother, Spock dear," said the apparition, "She must be just as sweet as you. . ."

He slammed his suitcase closed, unaware if everything he needed was in it, but not caring at this moment.

What was it Amanda had said about the Academy dorm rooms? They were "terribly impersonal". Yes. That was what he wanted, desperately. Terrible, terrible impersonality.

It sounds like heaven. . .

He tumbled his toiletries into a waterproof bag, then dumped both it and his suitcase next to the stack of boxes he had already packed. He looked at the couch. He would not sleep in his bed tonight. . .

A head with silky dark brown hair and pointed ears appeared beneath his chin. Arms that he never thought could show affection circled him, and held him steadily.

"I understand now, my adun," she said, "I will never again ask you to give up your Humanity." The vision reached out to give him the ozh'esta, "Together we will become greater then the sum of us."

Spock fled to the back yard, hastily kindling a fire in the small barbecue pit, and wrapped himself in the two wool blankets he had grabbed from the back of the couch.

He stared into the flames, not daring to close his eyes, lest another vision of an impossible future should come to him.

The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did. . .

---

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Th'laax - Vulcan myrrh. A thorny dwarf tree with purple-green leaves and ashy golden bark. Produces the resin th'laaxk'sa.

Th'laaxk'sa- The resinous sap produced by the th'laax tree. Commonly used in the preparation of incense, perfumes, lotions, and soaps. Culturally represents the state of being emotionally pure.

Sha'amii-thas - Vulcan goat's milk

Mh'gere - Vulcan term for the Terran sugar maple.

M'aih'nahr - Godmother, or adoptive mother. Literally "chosen mother".

Theris - Vulcan style tea. Can be made from varying proportions of many different Vulcan herbs. Occasionally contains caffeine. Always theobromine-free.

Yon-yekuhl - Literally "red moss" or "flame moss". A bright orange-red colored species of edible moss that grows wild in the desert. Most commonly made into tea. Usually blended with kh'aah, but often used alone in traditional Vulcan tea ceremonies. Slightly bitter, significantly astringent. Caffeine-free. The taste is somewhat akin to Terran rooibos tea. Culturally represents the concept of Familial or Platonic love.

Kh'aah- The most common type of Vulcan tea. Made from the dried leaves of the kh'aa bush. The taste is very sweet, similar to Terran stevia. Often blended with yon-yekuhl to balance the flavor.

Kh'aa - A very dark brown colored shrub with light blue berries. Culturally represents innocence or moral uprightness.

Kharas'lor - Vulcan cane sugar. A lightly sweet substance refined from the soft edible pulp of the khara bush-reed; a hardy desert plant with moisture-laden core.

Neik-pasu - Traditional Vulcan dining table. Usually made of lacquered wood. Very low to the floor; can be comfortably used while seated on a cushion.

A'nirih'nahr - Godfather, or adoptive father. Literally "chosen father".

Fonn'es - Loyalty; devoted attachment and affection

G'teth-kh'ir- Vulcan coffee, or mocha. Made from the roasted berries of the kh'aa bush. Contains a small amount of caffeine. Light blue in color, very sweet to the taste. Almost always made with steamed milk instead of water. A drink very popular with tourists.

Kau'nshaya - Literally "fusion", specifically the molecular fusion that takes place in stars. When used as a proper name, the term carries an implication of fusion of cultures as well as matter.

Tev-torsvii'far-doth - Poetry form. Literally "descending rhyme". Usually 10 lines in length, each line one syllable shorter than the previous. Common form for children's lullabies.

Ana'khana - One of the base languages for Modern Vulcan, much like Terran Latin.

Pen't'af - A type of sweet pudding usually made with the double-hulled Vulcan grain of the same name. Usually boiled in milk and spices until soft enough to be eaten. Akin to Terran rice pudding.

Ki'slar - Vulcan strawberries. Round, yellow-colored vine-fruits, with flat, disk-shaped seeds on their outer skin.

Bargot'ehk - Vulcan maccha/butter tea. Made from the leaves of the bar-got herb. The taste is similar to Terran sweet bay. Usually roasted and ground to powder before use. Caffeine-free. Commonly whisked into a heated mixture of milk and butter, and drunk as a tea. Also can be used as a flavoring agent for a wide variety of substances. Culturally represents the virtue of generosity.

Na'shayalar - Greetings; words or gestures of welcome

Be'hai'la - Guest, or guests; any recipients of hospitality

Wehk-les'ek - "Our thanks to you are many" (Traditional Vulcan salutation)

Th'i-oxalra - "Your actions are appreciated" (Modern Vulcan salutation)

Pok-tar - A traditional Vulcan dish consisting of wide, flat noodles covered with a spicy cream-based sauce, and topped with very thinly sliced pickled vegetables.

Rhombolian Mollusks - A species of black-shelled bivalve clam native to the Rhombol sector of the Varoth Sea, near the Na'Nam province. Locally cultivated for pearl-farming purposes, they are considered a delicacy to off-worlders. They are often sauteed in "Rhombolian butter" - a clarified milkfat that has been flavored with native spices.

Pret-armeel'i - Flavorful Vulcan entrée, much like a mild vegetable curry. Served cold, kebab-style, with a tart yoghurt sauce.

Fhour'yon salad - Large, pale green pea-like legumes, in a light vinegar and citrus dressing.

Red plomeek - Somewhat rare subspecies of the common purple plomeek. Slightly bitter.

Sheekuya n'a'na - Vulcan beverage akin to vodka or gin. Flavor often described as "orange-mint". Clear light blue in color. Made from ku'ya berries preserved in straight alcohol. Valued for its many medicinal uses. Served ice cold.

Ku'ya - Grayish-blue multi-stoned berries of the le-sum'ka'stik shrub.

Le-sum'ka'stik - Literally "ice-plant". A desert succulent often cultivated for its edible water-bearing leaves.

Hirat - Grape-like fruit, and the vine on which it grows. Has many varieties.

Sloh'ghaf-tor - Vulcan mead

Slor-ma'su - Honey

D'lechu - A desert succulent similar to aloe.

Explanation of the poetry term "ottava rima" can be found at - www. poetryfoundation learning /glossary-term /ottava%20rima

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A/N - Yes, I write Pike like he's a totally nerdy 80's kid. I'm not sorry. :D For more about Spock's relationship with Lelia, please read the related story, "Project". You can find it on my profile. Enjoy!