Chapter Twelve: Telepathy
Disclaimer: Alas, all borrowed, except the mischief.
She feels his eyes on her before she ever sees him.
Or maybe not. Heading out of the cafeteria building, Nyota stops at the bottom of the steps and lets the students exiting the building part around her.
A quick scan up the hill to where the quad opens out—but no Spock. She must be imagining things.
Another symptom of what Gaila cheekily calls the flu.
"You really ought to let a medic have a look at you," Gaila said earlier at breakfast as she slid into a chair at the end of the long table where Nyota sat listlessly nibbling a bagel and watching the newsfeed on the oversized monitors mounted on the cafeteria wall.
"What are you talking about?" Nyota said, looking down at Gaila's hand. Her Orion roommate opened her fist under Nyota's nose and said, "Here. You left it in the room—again. And your appetite's off," she said, pointing to the half-eaten bagel. "Definitely the flu."
With a rueful grin, Nyota had taken her comm from Gaila's palm and pocketed it.
"I'm just busy," she said, deliberately taking another bite from the bagel.
"Uh huh," Gaila said. "Don't lie to me. I recognize the flu when I see it."
But Nyota is busy—with exams on the horizon, the lab is often full. And her own research project for her psycholinguistics class is stalled. When she can, she needs to schedule an appointment with her professor to talk about it—but Captain Spaulding's office hours are the same ones she works for Spock. Finding time…
She reaches the top of the rise and steps out onto the path leading across the quad.
There he is. His eyes on her, striding forward in a way that makes his destination clear.
Spock is coming directly to her.
She would have seen him in a few moments anyway at the language building—but here he is, unexpected, and her stomach gives a flip.
The flu indeed.
Hurrying toward him, Nyota flashes a smile and says, "Fancy seeing you here, Commander."
It's the kind of patter they have fallen into the last few days—teasing with an overtone of friendliness—or something more. But today Spock's expression remains impassive—not surprising, considering they are in public—but disconcerting, nonetheless.
"I hoped to find you," he says, his face still a mask, and Nyota smiles hesitantly. "I have need of your assistance."
"I was just on my way to the office," she says as he tips his hand to the left, an invitation to follow him. They start down a path headed away from the language building. "You didn't have to come fetch me. You could have called."
At that she sees him look down at her and lift one eyebrow.
"Oh," she says, suddenly understanding. She tugs her comm out of her pocket and says, "I haven't turned it on."
She does then, and the screen immediately lights up. Three missed calls—two from him. At once she is alarmed.
"What is it?"
Instead of answering, Spock steps off the paved path and takes a shortcut across the lawn to a transport station stop.
"An emergency meeting with the dean. Your services as translator may be required," he says when she catches up.
His posture is more alarming than the import of his words—stiff and…wary, as if he expects trouble. She falls silent and they wait until a small hover bus pulls up less than a minute later.
Standing beside the door of the bus, Spock waits for Nyota to mount the steps first. She casts her glance around at the crowded interior and sees two places facing inward near the back window. Sliding into one seat, she looks up and waits for Spock to follow her.
Instead of sitting down, however, he eyes the place beside her and continues to stand, grasping the utility bar overhead, planting his feet firmly as the bus lurches forward.
A wave of disappointment washes over her—his refusal to sit down feeling like a personal affront. It shouldn't, she knows. The seats are close—and they would probably brush shoulders if they were seated side by side.
Touch telepaths must see personal space differently than she does. Nyota remembers Gaila's recent scolding—stop expecting him to act like a human.
For a few minutes she distracts herself by looking at the other passengers, any place other than looking up at Spock. The majority are red-uniformed cadets standing in the center of the bus, keeping their distance.
Two off-world faculty are also present, both humanoids she does not recognize, who rise from their seats and exit as soon as the bus stops.
The administration building is close to the north gate of the Academy on the far side of the campus from everything else, which usually isn't much of a problem. Nyota can count on one hand the number of times she's needed to go there. She follows Spock through the ornate front doors and down the hallway to a large conference room. Already it is half-full—and with a start, Nyota realizes that almost everyone there is an off-worlder.
The faculty at the Academy are a mix of service personnel on rotation and civilians, many who are visiting professors and researchers from other areas in the quadrant. Professor Artura, for example, the Andorian linguist whose office is down the hall from Spock's—has been at the Academy for three years and plans to stay at least two more before returning to his work for the Andorian diplomatic corps.
Looking around, Nyota sees Professor Artura sitting near the opposite door, one blue antenna tilted in obvious concentration as another Andorian—much younger than the Professor—speaks in animated bursts.
Clearly the people assembled here are agitated—and Nyota feels her heart racing. What has happened?
At the far end of the conference room is a table topped with what from here she can tell is translation equipment—three large computers with microphones angled to the side, a stack of PADDs and recorders, and a large blue disc aimed at the ceiling.
Spock motions her forward and she heads to the table. Sitting behind it are two uniformed officers, both who look relieved as she and Spock approach.
"This is my aide, Cadet Uhura," Spock says without preamble. "Her xenolinguistics skills are exemplary."
He moves away as one of the lieutenants says, "Welcome aboard, cadet. We can use you."
For a few minutes she loses track of Spock as she settles behind one of the computers and listens as the lieutenant—a thin, dark woman with short dreadlocks—explains how the transcription feed is monitored.
"If all of the alien staff are here," the lieutenant says, "we have 43 different languages to monitor. The autotranslator is fine for most—and most of the professors are competent enough in Standard not to have to rely on any translation at all. But we have a few—"
Nyota watches as the lieutenant punches up a series of numbers on the screen, opening another view.
"Here," she says, pointing to a wiggly red line across the left hand side of the monitor. "Denobulans don't perceive sound waves and have to have a visual translation. We're still learning the language ourselves—the parameters are roughed in, but you will need to track what the computer is doing and compensate if you see any gross errors. The odds are you won't—but another pair of eyes will help."
"Exactly what are we—" Nyota begins, but just then the dean walks in and the room falls silent.
"I apologize," the dean says, his voice amplified by the microphone mounted on the lectern, "for calling this meeting without more warning, but I felt you needed to have all the information as soon as possible. You may have heard by now that yesterday on the floor of the Federation Council, one member called for an investigation into the alleged sabotage of the U.S.S. Camden."
Nyota is stunned. More than a week ago the Camden had ruptured a baffle plate during an ion storm. Sabotage? Is it possible?
She lifts her eyes briefly from the computer monitor and finds Spock sitting on the aisle two rows back. His expression is sober.
As if he can sense her looking at him, he flicks his gaze to her for a second.
Sabotage?
Did he know about this?
"Admiral Barnett testified concerning our findings," the dean continues. A large man with graying hair, the dean leans heavily onto the lectern and says, "No intelligence suggests that the Camden was subjected to any sabotage. However, in light of recent…incidents…the Council is obliged to take up the matter for investigation."
So that's what this is about, Nyota thinks. In the past month alien smugglers have twice been caught ferrying explosives through the lunar docking station. The first time a small skiff registered to a trader from Makus IV was searched after authorities were tipped off. The second time an unannounced search turned up traces of the same explosive in the hold of a barge headed to Deneva.
Except for the similarities in the explosives, nothing else about the two incidents suggests a connection.
But a grass roots organization hostile to any alien involvement on earth jumped on the news stories and has been loud in their opposition.
Now, Nyota thinks, they are exploiting the Camden for their own purposes, suggesting a cause and effect just to promote their own brand of xenophobia.
The idea makes her furious.
The dean takes such a deep breath that the monitors from the recordings show a spike. Nyota looks up and is startled to see him flushing, visibly angry.
"And now," he says, "it is my unpleasant duty to ask you to read the loyalty oath headquarters is requiring for all non-Terran faculty. It should be on your screens—"
From the corner of her eye Nyota sees the dean turning to the translators sitting behind the table.
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant says. Nyota taps her screen to double check the Denobulan translation scrolling by.
The words themselves are neither offensive nor inflammatory. That the alien faculty are having to sign them is.
Nyota feels her throat tighten and her cheeks grow hot.
"Questions?" the dean asks.
The young Andorian sitting beside Professor Artura speaks first.
"Are my Terran colleagues required to sign?"
The dean hesitates before answering.
"As you see," he says, "the wording specifically mentions that the signer is non-Terran. The rest of the faculty may be required to sign a loyalty oath, but I assume it will not be this exact one."
"Then you do not know," the Andorian says, and Nyota sees the dean blink twice and look down. He's embarrassed to have to answer, "No, I don't."
"Why now?"
This from a small alien with wrinkled purple skin and a shock of dark purple fur covering its short, stubby forearms.
"The grassroots organization known as Earth United has asked for it," the dean says, squinting into the distance. "They've been around for a few years but have never been that vocal until now. They obviously have friends on the Federation Council, and Starfleet is feeling pressured to comply. Any other questions?"
When she hears Spock's voice, Nyota feels her heart jump into her throat.
"What are the consequences for failing to sign?"
"For civilians," the dean says slowly, "revocation of tenure and termination. For Starfleet officers—general court martial and dismissal."
The room erupts into a buzz of noise that the dean does not try to control. He steps back from the lectern and looks across the room, waiting. When the room quiets again, he steps back to the mike and says, "If you wish to sign now, you may do so. Otherwise, you have until the 18th to decide. Thank you."
With that, the dean turns abruptly and leaves the conference room. The faculty members get up, some lingering over their terminals, others heading directly up the aisle.
"Thank you," Nyota hears the lieutenant at her elbow saying, but she is busy watching Spock make his way toward the table. She stands and they head out the back door.
"Did you know about this?" Nyota says when they are clear of the administration building.
"I suspected," Spock says, his face once more an impenetrable mask.
Suddenly Nyota can hardly bear to see his face this calm. Her own face, she knows, is pinched with dismay. If they head back to the office now, their conversation will be constrained and dishonest—not full of the sound and fury she is feeling.
"Let's get away," she says, almost touching him but stopping herself short, her hand an inch from his own. "Some place off campus."
He reacts then—the expression on his features shifting with surprise.
"I mean," Nyota says, belatedly recognizing the suggestiveness of her words, "for coffee. Or tea. At a teashop. Somewhere close by."
She realizes that she is babbling but cannot stop.
Heat rises up her torso and neck and makes her brow sweaty. "I'm just—upset about this whole thing."
Not quite the truth, not quite a lie.
She is upset, but at this moment, more so with herself for giving in to the symptoms of the flu.
At the teashop across the street from the north gate she orders at the counter while Spock stakes out two chairs for them in the corner table near a window. The teashop is surprisingly crowded with cadets, many who are sitting alone, hunched over their PADDs or talking on their comms. In a few minutes a tall boy with bright red hair cut short and spikey brings them a pot of tea and two porcelain cups.
To her surprise Nyota is unsure how to begin.
"Your help was—"
"I hope you don't mind—"
Lately they have started doing this—beginning sentences together and having to pause, dancing linguistically around each other. You first. No, you.
Spock tilts his head fractionally and Nyota starts again.
"I hope you don't mind getting away from the campus for a few minutes," she says, pouring herself a cup of tea and lifting it gently to her lips. "I wanted to…tell you that I'm sorry…about everything."
Here she is babbling again. The heat rising to her cheeks is not just from the tea.
"Everything?"
Damn Vulcan precision. She tries to smile.
"The oath. The racism behind it. Starfleet shouldn't cave in to public pressure that way."
"If the Federation Council calls for it, they have no choice," Spock says, his face still unreadable.
"But you don't approve!"
"My…feelings…on the matter are not relevant."
"Yes, they are!" she says, putting her cup down so swiftly that the tea sloshes over the side. "You are being singled out for unfair treatment! It's an injustice, and you don't have to like it!"
Spock says nothing, but she sees something change in his eyes—a lightening of his mood, a letting go of something held tight. She presses her advantage.
"You could file a grievance—or have the civilian faculty petition for redress. What's next? This Earth United group could have your visa revoked. You'd have to leave—"
"That hardly seems likely."
"But it could—"
"Logically almost anything could happen," Spock says, his eyes still locked on hers. "But Starfleet would resist losing a large number of faculty—"
"They aren't resisting the mistreatment of those same faculty now! What happens if one day you find out that…that…you're being sent back to Vulcan? What about your career? Your…life here?"
Hearing herself say it embarrasses her—the bareness of the words, the honesty of her real worry.
Cradling his cup, Spock looks into his tea and says, "That is an unlikely scenario. At any rate, I hold dual citizenship. Deporting me would be difficult."
Dual citizenship! She is so surprised that she says nothing. Perhaps as a commander in Starfleet he has been granted it.
Pick your battles. She hears her mother's often-given advice, usually after Nyota had bent her ear with a long tale about some perceived injustice—a friend whose mother imposed an excessive curfew, a school assignment graded with a skewed rubric, a newsfeed story about a petition to free a political prisoner on Arcturus Med'eva.
Your help isn't always wanted, her mother would say.
"Well, what about Professor Artura? Couldn't he be sent home—if this group is able to deport all aliens from Earth?"
"I have no idea what would happen to Professor Artura," Spock says, meeting her gaze again. "We have never discussed his legal status."
Without lowering his eyes, he sets his cup back on the table and says, "Your worry is premature. Nothing may happen yet."
An image of an older couple glaring at them comes to mind—another place, another cup of tea—an image from a few weeks ago, wasn't it? At the time she hadn't understood their hostility. Now she thinks she knows.
Pick your battles.
"I just feel so…helpless," Nyota says.
"You were helpful today," Spock says.
Nyota snorts.
"That was nothing," she says. "I just kept an eye on a monitor. That lieutenant could have handled it on her own. She didn't really need me."
Spock looks down then, circling his thumb and forefinger through the handle of the cup, lifting it almost tenderly and taking a slow sip.
"You were needed," he says.
There it is again—that same odd sense of being watched—or being known—even when his eyes are not on her.
Almost as if they could speak without words—or like now, as if every word does double duty, meaning more than they can say aloud.
X X X X X X
The first time his parents separated, Spock was only three years, nine months, and two days old and had no opinion on the matter. That his mother was taking him to live with her on Earth was no more remarkable than the fact that a few days before they had been living on Vulcan with his father. The new situation was no more or less real than the other. It simply was.
Which was not to say that is wasn't less pleasant. Life on Vulcan had been walks in the warm garden with his Mother, ka'athryra lessons in the evenings with his father, the familiar smells of vegetable curries wafting from the kitchen.
Life on Earth was fog droplets so large that they chilled him every morning, food so dry and coarse that he spit it out, half-chewed, when his mother's back was turned, his grandmother dourly eyeing him and saying, "Doesn't he talk?"
"He talks," his mother said, a prickliness in her voice that he recognized. At home when he took things apart—broke them, as his mother called it—she used this tone of voice with him. "He's quiet now because he's…upset."
His mother's word—upset. Lately she had frequently been upset—with him, with his father, with the people they met in the medical center or the retail shopping areas—strangers who cast odd glances at him or who turned quickly to each other, their voices dropping into whispers.
Or the ones who did not bother to whisper but made their comments aloud, as though he and his mother were deaf.
"It isn't working here," he heard his mother say one night as he lay in bed, his father's voice low and indistinct. And then his mother's voice took on an unusual quality that meant she was crying. He put his hands to his ears and pressed as hard as he could.
On Earth at his grandmother's house he frequently stopped whatever he was doing and reached out to feel his father's presence. Sarek was there, concern and worry and affection through their bond. Reassured that he wasn't forgotten, Spock would resume whatever he had been doing—taking apart a puzzle, or scrolling through a book about Earth animals, or taking apathetic nibbles from a carrot.
"Doesn't he talk?" his grandmother said at those moments, and Spock felt his mother's irritation again, and her nudge to be more sociable.
But it was hard, and as a week turned into a month, and a month turned into two, he grew inward, blocking his mother's attempts to cajole or comfort him.
"He's just upset," Amanda said when her sister Cecilia took him to her office and ran him though her medical scanners. "He misses his father."
"And you don't?" Cecilia said, glancing at Amanda before shining a light into Spock's eyes and pressing her fingers on his brow.
Instead of answering, Amanda put her hand to her mouth and looked away.
"You can't say you weren't warned," he heard his grandmother say one night—his mother's part of the conversation out of his hearing—but he knew that he was the topic.
That he was the reason they were here on Earth.
The reason his mother had left his father behind.
Not everything about living at his grandmother's house was unpleasant. Just in her backyard were more varieties of flora and fauna than lived on all of Vulcan—he simply had to sweep his hand across a single swathe of grass to uncover three different types of beetles, for instance.
And at least once a week his aunt Cecilia and her husband David brought their three children for a visit—their noise and bustle clearly distressing their grandmother but intriguing their Vulcan cousin.
But mostly he tried to feel nothing—or at least not homesick, as his aunt Cecilia had pronounced.
His mother, on the other hand, seemed to feel quite a lot—and seemed to be more emotional, not less, as their stay on Earth turned into a third month.
When his father showed up one afternoon at his grandmother's door, Spock was not surprised. An hour later when his mother told him to pack up his things because they were going home, he was not surprised.
He was relieved.
The second time they separated, Spock was very surprised indeed. This time he had just turned 17 and was preparing for his final year of school before applying to the Vulcan Science Academy.
He had spent his birthday alone—his parents were away on a diplomatic mission to Edgewan, a planet petitioning for enrollment in the Federation—but he hadn't minded. The quiet was soothing—and he was never really lonely. Anytime he liked he could feel the undercurrent of his parents' presence, and of T'Pring, too, though they rarely saw each other. The month he spent at his house was a time of reflection and rest before the last big push of school.
Both Amanda and Sarek had looked tired when they returned, though Spock could sense his mother's excitement and he spent several afternoons listening to her recount her impressions of the people of Edgewan.
"It was so different from here," she said, "and even from Earth. As near as anyone can tell, the planet was completely barren until a millennia ago—no native plants or animals—nothing."
"But," Spock protested, "you said the animal life there was even more plentiful than on Earth."
"Now it is," Amanda said, smiling smugly. "But everything there—even all the people—are immigrants from somewhere else. And what a mix! Apparently, many of the early space-going races ended up colonizing there. It was wonderful to be in a place where everything is so heterogeneous!"
He recognized his mother's comment as what it was—a veiled criticism of Vulcan society.
"The best part," Amanda told him later, "was that your father really needed me there. For the first time I didn't feel like something ornamental. The Edgewans wouldn't even talk to the other Vulcan diplomats. Just your father."
She laughed at Spock's quizzical expression and added, "His human wife, you see—his obvious commitment to the diversity they value. I ended up being invited to a thousand parties—"
"23," Sarek amended from his place on the sofa in the study.
"One thousand and 23," Amanda said, laughing. "And of course, Ambassador Sarek was invited, too—and not one of those other Vulcans was allowed to come along—"
His mother's high spirits lasted several days—until one evening his father came home and told her that Stelon had been promoted to chief negotiator.
"But you're overdue for a promotion!" Amanda had protested loudly. "And Stelon did nothing on Edgewan! There must be a mistake. That isn't fair!"
"The decision has been made," Sarek said, the discussion over.
Except that for Amanda it was not.
"That's three times you've been skipped over," she said. "You are being singled out. The Council needs to know—"
"The Council knows," Sarek said evenly. "The head of the Council spoke to me personally."
"Then why—"
But his mother did not finish her question. Instead, her face had blanched and then flushed—her hue shifting from pale to ruddy in a few moments.
"Sarek," she said at last, "this is nothing more than simple racism. You have to protest—"
"As I said," Sarek said, his voice steely now, "the decision has been made, Amanda. There is nothing more I can do."
"Don't tell me that!" she said loudly. "If you say nothing—if you wink and nod at their prejudice—how do you think that makes me feel? Or Spock? What kind of future does he have if no one ever challenges them? You have to pick your battles, Sarek! They aren't going to change on their own! Don't give me high words about logic and reason—I know better!"
Spock had been so astounded that he had said nothing—had watched the drama unfold from his chair near the door of the living area. As his mother stormed past him he tried to make eye contact, but she looked resolutely ahead. A moment later he heard her bedroom door slam.
Sarek stood in the center of the room, his arms at his side, before turning and leaving the house. A sudden mechanical roar—and his father left in the flitter and did not return for several hours.
When Spock got back home from his music lesson the next day, his mother was gone and his father was taciturn.
"She's visiting her family," was all Sarek would say, but that night when Spock had trouble feeling her presence he dialed Cecilia's number on the subspace radio.
"I don't know when I'll be home," Amanda said, her voice tired, her face drawn. "I have some things I have to sort out."
And then, almost as an afterthought, she said, "This isn't about you, Spock. This is between me and your father."
But he recognized a lie when he heard it. She had taught him that.
They spoke every few days, and each time, his mother sounded as distant and weary as she had at first.
In the meantime, he and his father fell into a routine at home—waking early and making a rudimentary breakfast together, and then heading in their different directions—Sarek to his office in Shi'Kahr, Spock to a study group that met regularly to plan research projects for the upcoming school year.
At night their schedule was reversed, coming back to a dark house, cadging together a cold evening meal. And then watching or reading the newsfeeds, sometimes in each other's company, but just as often, in different rooms, alone.
Spock felt his mother's absence keenly—both in the house and through their bond.
For three weeks they lived this way.
And then one afternoon Spock came home and found his father already there.
"I'm going to get your mother," he said simply, carrying a small piece of luggage from the bedroom to the hall.
"She called?"
"No," Sarek said, opening the outside door, "but I am picking this battle."
As he was pulling the door closed behind him, he looked back at his astonished son and added, "I need her. We need her."
X X X X X X X
"What's going on?" Chris asks, his voice tinny over the comm. Spock takes the receiver from his ear and adjusts the sound modulator until the feedback disappears.
"Specify," he says, knowing that Chris will complain that he is being excessively Vulcan—a code word Chris coined years ago to mean stubborn and obscure.
"You know what I mean," Chris says with just a hint of impatience. "The flack in the Council meeting yesterday—that wacko group calling for expulsion of aliens. It's all over the news. What did your father say?"
"Sarek was not at the Council meeting," Spock says. "He had surgery six days ago and is home."
Even over the comm Spock can hear the intake of Chris' breath.
"How is he—"
"Recovering well," Spock interrupts. At the corner of his computer monitor he sees a note flashing, an indication to check his mail for a message from the dean. "I must go. I will call you later."
Without waiting for a reply, he snaps off the comm. In one corner of his consciousness he knows his mother would have disapproved—you have to pay attention to other people's feelings, she often says—but Chris has never needed him to be anything other than who he is.
Some day he needs to tell him how much he values that.
The note from the dean is not unexpected, particularly after the newsfeed reports yesterday.
The group calling itself Earth United has started holding rallies across the country demanding a review of immigration policies. They make no secret of their dislike of off-worlders and their suspicion of the Federation.
When they began suggesting the idea that the Camden was sabotaged by aliens based on Earth, Spock knew Starfleet would have to respond publicly. The emergency meeting with the dean, then, is not a surprise.
What is a surprise is that only the off-world faculty are asked to attend.
Calling up the daily duty roster, he sees that two lieutenants from the language pool are listed. If all of the off-world faculty need translation services, they will be hard-pressed to comply. Nyota.
With a flick of his thumb he dials her but gets her voice mail. Again—and still no answer.
He does something then that he thinks about later, as he sits before his asenoi that night and meditates.
He reaches out and looks for her.
They are not bonded in any way a Vulcan would recognize—yet since that day in his office when he kept her from falling, he has been able to see her—as though his fingers were still around her waist, holding her up, his mind briefly, lightly, touching hers.
Impossible.
Or rather, improbable.
Still, he can't deny what he…feels.
From long practice he keeps the bond with his parents at bay—partitioned out of his conscious thought like voices in a distant room, indistinct, even mute at times, but always available if he wants to examine them closer.
This…thing…that he senses with Nyota—it is not the same, not a looped connection, but a vague uneasy wariness when she is absent from his life.
Without having a specific destination in mind, he closes up his apartment and heads across campus to the main quad. It's too early for her to be in the lab, so he doesn't stop there.
Walking on past the language building, he suddenly knows—she is finishing her morning meal and will be in the cafeteria.
A logical deduction—that's all. Nothing more.
And yet—he is sure she is there, with a certainty that is not logical.
She could, after all, be in her dorm, or running a simulation in the psycholinguistics lab. Or any number of things this time of the morning.
But she's not. He knows it.
At the top of the gentle rise near the cafeteria he sees her starting onto the paved path.
The uneasiness he feels when they are apart dissipates at once.
Hurrying toward him, Nyota flashes a smile and says, "Fancy seeing you here, Commander."
It's the kind of patter they have fallen into the last few days—teasing with an overtone of friendliness—or something more. No one seems to have overheard her, but he hides his amusement just in case. No use inviting any sort of censure for being overly familiar.
"I hoped to find you," he says. "I have need of your assistance."
"I was just on my way to the office," she says as they start down a path headed away from the language building. "You didn't have to come fetch me. You could have called."
Thinking of the two unanswered calls earlier, he looks down at her as they head toward the transport station.
"Oh," she says. She tugs her comm out of her pocket and says, "I haven't turned it on."
She does then, and the screen immediately lights up. Glancing up in alarm, she says, "What is it?"
Instead of answering, Spock calculates the speed of their forward motion and the distance to the nearest transport stop. If they catch the bus due in 73 seconds from now, they can make it to the administration building on the north side of campus with time to spare before the meeting.
When Nyota catches up with him, he says, "An emergency meeting with the dean. Your services as translator may be required."
The bus arrives five seconds behind schedule—not a problem if the driver compensates with extra speed. Allowing himself a small pleasure, he watches Nyota mount the bus steps ahead of him, her fluid motion pulling him along in her wake.
The seat she chooses is large enough for them both. The slope of her shoulder, the curve of her elbow, the bend of her knee—invitations he forces himself to ignore. Instead, he turns toward the front of the bus and holds on the utility bar as they start moving.
When they debark at the administration building, he leads the way to the ornamental front doors. Nyota hesitates, as if she is unsure where to go, but once they are inside the building, she straightens and heads down the hall toward the noise coming from the conference room.
Seated throughout the large room at tables equipped with computer terminals are the off-world Academy faculty. Although he has not personally spoken to many of them, particularly in areas outside the computer science and language departments, Spock recognizes all but two—new hires who sit solemnly in the back of the room.
His colleague Professor Artura is sitting near the opposite door, one blue antenna tilted in obvious concentration as another Andorian—much younger than the Professor—speaks in animated bursts.
At the far end of the conference room are the two lieutenants whose names were listed on the duty roster. In front of them is a table with an assortment of translation equipment, none which looks unfamiliar. Nyota should have no trouble.
He senses her at his elbow and he motions her forward. Both of the lieutenants are former students—both look up as he approaches the table.
"This is my aide, Cadet Uhura," Spock says without preamble. "Her xenolinguistics skills are exemplary."
Moving away, he hears one of the lieutenants say, "Welcome aboard, cadet. We can use you."
"What's this about?" the K'r'than specialist in neural-net computing says, waving Spock over. "I had to cancel a class to be here. Quite indefensible, all this trouble."
Her voice is a mix of glottal stops and hisses which Spock normally finds fascinating to parse, but today the K'r'than is noticeably upset and her voice almost impossible to decipher.
Instinctively Spock backs away but then reconsiders, forcing himself to pause.
You have to pay attention to other people's feelings.
"Indeed," Spock says. "I believe I hear the dean coming now."
Settling himself in a seat on the aisle, Spock looks up and sees Nyota busy behind the translation table. Although she doesn't notice him, he feels oddly reassured that she is close by.
If he is honest with himself, this is the real reason he sought her out and asked her to come.
He will have to meditate about that later.
"I apologize," the dean says, stepping to the lectern and leaning down to speak into the microphone, "for calling this meeting without more warning, but I felt you needed to have all the information as soon as possible. You may have heard by now that yesterday on the floor of the Federation Council, one member called for an investigation into the alleged sabotage of the U.S.S. Camden."
A ripple of noise flutters through the faculty. Apparently many of the staff have been caught off guard. Spock tilts his head to catch a glimpse of Nyota, her bottom lip caught by her top teeth, something she does when she concentrates.
As if she can feel his gaze, she looks up at him.
"Admiral Barnett testified concerning our findings," the dean continues. "No intelligence suggests that the Camden was subjected to any sabotage. However, in light of recent…incidents…the Council is obliged to take up the matter for investigation."
Again that flicker through the crowd. From several different directions Spock hears comments as people begin to recall the events the dean alluded to—weapons smugglers apprehended on the lunar docking station. Both times non-Terrans were involved, though the operatives were from different worlds and their craft were headed to different destinations.
Overlooking those obvious differences, the xenophobic group Earth United has made the case in the media that the weapons smuggling is proof of sabotage aboard the Camden, despite abundant evidence to the contrary.
The illogic of their argument is frustrating.
The dean takes a deep breath and flushes, visibly angry.
"And now," he says, "it is my unpleasant duty to ask you to read the loyalty oath headquarters is requiring for all non-Terran faculty. It should be on your screens—"
This is what Spock had feared most—and he becomes very still.
"Questions?" the dean asks.
The young Andorian sitting beside Professor Artura speaks first.
"Are my Terran colleagues required to sign?"
The dean hesitates before answering.
"As you see," he says, "the wording specifically mentions that the signer is non-Terran. The rest of the faculty may be required to sign a loyalty oath, but I assume it will not be this exact one."
"Then you do not know," the Andorian says.
"No, I don't."
Spock sees the dean blink twice. Embarrassment? Dismay.
"Why now?"
This from Professor Azul, a Midorthial in the mathematics department—one of the only chess partners who has managed to beat Spock in their infrequent friendly matches.
As the dean explains the origins of the Earth United movement and the motivation behind the loyalty oath, Spock has a growing uneasiness about what has not been said—what must be laid bare before any equation can be balanced, before anyone being asked to sign can make a rational choice. For a moment he hesitates—the dean can be an emotional man. He has, for instance, taken offense in faculty meetings when professors raised questions about his decisions.
"What are the consequences for failing to sign?" Spock asks.
"For civilians," the dean says slowly, "revocation of tenure and termination. For Starfleet officers—general court martial and dismissal."
The room erupts into a buzz of noise and for a few moments the dean stands aside and waits. When the noise subsides he says, "If you wish to sign now, you may do so. Otherwise, you have until the 18th to decide. Thank you."
With that, the dean turns abruptly and leaves the conference room. The faculty members get up, some lingering over their terminals, others heading directly up the aisle. Careful not to brush against anyone, Spock threads his way through the crowd to the translation table.
He feels Nyota watching him.
When he is a few feet away she stands and they head out the back door.
"Did you know about this?" Nyota says when they are clear of the administration building. If she is annoyed that he didn't give her more information beforehand, he can't tell.
"I suspected."
Suddenly Nyota's expression is pinched, her brow furrowed. She is upset—though whether with him or with the meeting he isn't sure.
"Let's get away," she says, startling him. In slow motion he sees her fingers reaching toward him, then curling away at the last moment. He feels relief and disappointment in equal measure. "Someplace off campus," she adds.
Lately he has indulged himself when he is alone—fantasies about taking her to his apartment, imagined moments of privacy. In his dreams…but he dares not think about that now, not when his face might give him away. With a start he worries that he may already have...
He reacts then—feeling his face grow hot.
"I mean," Nyota says, apparently wishing to disabuse him of any ideas of impropriety, "for coffee. Or tea. At a teashop. Somewhere close by."
A whiff of salt—she is perspiring, embarrassed. Because she knows?
"I'm just—upset about this whole thing."
He doesn't know what to say.
At the teashop across the street from the north gate Nyota orders at the counter while he stakes out two chairs for them in the corner table near a window. When she makes her way through the crowd, they both sit in awkward silence until their server sets a pot of tea and two porcelain cups on their table.
"Your help was—"
"I hope you don't mind—"
Lately they have started doing this—speaking simultaneously—a result, no doubt, of falling into similar trains of thought when they work together.
Spock tilts his head fractionally and Nyota starts again.
"I hope you don't mind getting away from the campus for a few minutes," she says, pouring herself a cup of tea and lifting it gently to her lips. "I wanted to…tell you that I'm sorry…about everything."
Because he is watching her so intently, he sees a sheen flush across her cheeks and nose. His heart beats so hard that he struggles to resist an impulse to press his fingers to his side.
"Everything?"
Surely she doesn't know.
"The oath. The racism behind it. Starfleet shouldn't cave in to public pressure that way."
"If the Federation Council calls for it, they have no choice," Spock says, relieved. The meeting then—that is why she is upset.
"But you don't approve!"
"My…feelings…on the matter are not relevant."
"Yes, they are!" she says, putting her cup down so swiftly that the tea sloshes over the side. "You are being singled out for unfair treatment! It's an injustice, and you don't have to like it!"
You have to pay attention to other people's feelings.
The faculty are being treated unfairly, being targeted in a way that feels wrong…and familiar.
Hearing Nyota say it lightens the ache. Divides it between them. Makes it bearable.
"You could file a grievance—or have the civilian faculty petition for redress. What's next? This Earth United group could have your visa revoked. You'd have to leave—"
"That hardly seems likely."
"But it could—"
"Logically almost anything could happen," Spock says, his eyes still locked on hers. "But Starfleet would resist losing a large number of faculty—"
"They aren't resisting the mistreatment of those same faculty now! What happens if one day you find out that…that…you're being sent back to Vulcan? What about your career? Your…life here?"
He thinks about that for a moment. What would it mean, to give up Starfleet, to head back to Vulcan?
At one time he might not have minded—would have welcomed it, even.
Now…
Slipping his hands around his cup, Spock looks into his tea and says, "That is an unlikely scenario. At any rate, I hold dual citizenship. Deporting me would be difficult."
She shifts in a way that indicates surprise—a reminder that as closely as they have worked for the past few weeks, they still have much about each other that they do not know. Her childhood in Africa, for instance—she has made only glancing remarks from time to time, snippets about her favorite tea growing up, or just yesterday, a sheepish account of bloodying the nose of the neighborhood bully who had shoved a young child to the ground.
"Well, what about Professor Artura? Couldn't he be sent home—if this group is able to deport all aliens from Earth?"
His mother would call it righteous indignation—Nyota's tone of voice, her posture, the way she leans forward across the table, almost like a conspirator.
Deport all aliens from Earth—that would not be possible, Spock thinks, taking his eyes off Nyota so he can consider her words without distraction. Earth's history—its population—is too intertwined with aliens to ever be what people like Earth United want it to be.
He himself is a repudiation of all they believe.
"I have no idea what would happen to Professor Artura," Spock says, meeting her gaze again. "We have never discussed his legal status."
Without lowering his eyes, he sets his cup back on the table and says, "Your worry is premature. Nothing may happen yet."
He means for his words to reassure her, to comfort her, but her face still shows signs of distress.
"I just feel so…helpless," Nyota says.
"You were helpful today," Spock says, careful to choose words that say both what he means—and less.
Nyota snorts.
"That was nothing," she says. "I just kept an eye on a monitor. That lieutenant could have handled it on her own. She didn't really need me."
Spock looks down then, circling his thumb and forefinger through the handle of the cup before taking a sip.
"You were needed," he says. The truth this time, and no lie.
They are not bonded, not connected telepathically, but here it is again, the feeling that they are touching when they do not touch, not as Vulcans do, and not even in the needy way his father reaches for his mother, but from some human place inside him that has been mute until now, speaking the language only she knows.
Almost as if they could speak without words—or as if every word does double duty, meaning more than they can say aloud.
A/N: Many, many thanks for sticking with this story—your notes keep me writing. Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her support. Check out her newest story, "Accidental Intruder," if you haven't already—it's listed in my favorites.
