Chapter 13: Dialect
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, proving that wishing doesn't make something so.
Spock is never late.
As far as Nyota knows, he doesn't wear any sort of chronometer, nor does he pay attention to the numerous wall clocks posted on campus.
Yet she often amuses them both by asking the time—and then checking his accuracy against her wristwatch. He is always exactly—exactly—right.
So tonight when he is late to dinner she is quietly alarmed.
For five minutes she stands outside the small restaurant they had agreed on, craning her neck around the passers-by to try and catch an early glimpse of him at the end of the sidewalk.
After ten minutes she checks her comm—no calls—and her watch—it is working properly.
Ten minutes is nothing. Calm down.
He's never late. Ten minutes is an eternity.
When she sees him at last—twelve minutes late!—she holds up her left arm and gives a hesitant wave. From this distance she can't read his expression—he's at the far end of the block—but she feels that he has spotted her—that same eerie sense she has noticed lately whenever he is close.
If they don't hurry they will be late for the lecture. Apparently he is thinking the same thing, for he says nothing as he joins her at the restaurant, simply nodding and pushing open the door and leading the way inside.
"Tea," Spock says without preamble to the startled waiter who approaches their table with menus in hand. "And you?"
Taking the menu from the waiter and shooting him an apologetic glance, Nyota says, "Yes, please. Tea for both of us."
When the waiter moves away, Nyota puts her folded menu on the table and looks up. Spock's eyes are on her and she feels thrown off guard by his intensity.
"What happened?"
"I apologize for being late," he says. "I was…detained."
"What happened?" Nyota says again, but the waiter appears with an old-fashioned tablet and pen.
"Tea only," Spock says after Nyota orders.
"You aren't going to eat?" she says, horrified. Although he often sits with her at lunch, she knows that the evening meal is one he truly needs.
"After the lecture," he says, and she sits back. After all, what she knows about Vulcan eating habits is minimal, and he knows himself better than she does.
"Aren't you going to tell me why you were late? And explain why you didn't call?"
Although she tries to affect a playful tone as she says them, she wishes she could rein in her words—stable them, wild horses that they are. Lately she has been much too free in how much she asks, how much she assumes. He has a right to his privacy.
But if Spock is offended by her over-familiarity, he doesn't show it. Instead, he tents his fingers under his chin and says, "Today is the 18th. I had to go to the dean's office to sign the loyalty oath."
"You signed it?"
She knows she sounds disapproving, but she can't stop herself. She doesn't blame any of the professors for signing it—their jobs, even their careers—are at stake. Her disapproval is not with them—or with Spock—but with Starfleet itself, for bending to public pressure.
"There was a briefing afterwards," Spock says. "I apologize for being late. And for not calling."
"No, no," she says swiftly, feeling petty and foolish, "I…certainly understand."
When her food comes at last, it is cardboard in her mouth, dry and tasteless, and after a few bites she pushes back her plate and suggests that they leave.
They had been warned, but Nyota is shocked to see protesters outside the north gate as they approach the Academy auditorium. Even in the gloom of twilight she can tell that some are carrying signs sporting the Earth United logo.
Darting a glance up at Spock, she tries to read his reaction.
If he has any at all, he hides it well.
Two months ago she would have assumed that he was indifferent about the protesters and their signs. Certainly his face reveals nothing.
But now…the twitch of a muscle in his jaw, the narrowing of his gaze.
He is furious. She is sure of it.
Two MP's stand facing the crowd of thirty or so people milling about outside the gate. As Nyota and Spock pass through, someone shouts, "Go home!" One of the MP's swivels his head around quickly and nods when Nyota makes eye contact. The other keeps his eyes trained on the protesters.
"I'm…sorry," Nyota stammers. Spock says nothing, continuing to walk so quickly that she has to take larger strides than are comfortable to keep abreast.
When they reach the auditorium steps, Spock starts up and then pauses, waiting for Nyota. Uniformed cadets and several officers hurry up the steps ahead of them.
The Brodhead Lecture has always been open to the public, so Nyota isn't surprised to see civilians seated when they reach the auditorium. She is surprised, however, that so many people are here.
The newsfeed, she thinks. Spock's winning the Brodhead Prize this year coincides with the uptick in anti-alien sentiment in the wake of the Camden accident. Several news agencies highlighted the irony of an alien being singled out for recognition by the Academy students, and not surprisingly, Earth United immediately vowed to disrupt the lecture.
Without the MP's at the gate, Nyota is sure they would, too. Might even still try to.
Trailing Spock down the side aisle toward the front of the auditorium, Nyota hears murmurs from some of the audience members. Surely not everyone here is interested in Romulan dialects—a topic she herself had suggested. A more general lecture about the nature of teaching or the importance of linguistic study as preparation for space travel might have been better choices.
Too late now.
A seat has been reserved for Nyota on the front row, where language faculty members and professors in the computer science department—the two disciplines Spock teaches—are already waiting. She slips into a seat beside Professor Artura while Spock heads on up the steps and makes his way to a chair beside the dean and assistant dean on the stage.
Leaning toward her ear, Professor Artura says with his lisping accent, "I hope you accompanied the Commander here."
"We came together from dinner. Why?" Nyota asks, glancing at the Andorian professor.
"The unpleasantness outside," he says, as if this is explanation enough. Nyota frowns and he adds, "When you are around, Cadet, the Commander looks at little else."
Unsure as she often is about how to interpret Professor Artura's innuendos, Nyota settles back in her seat, studiously looking away.
In a few moments the lights dim twice and the murmuring fades to silence. The dean, a large man with graying hair, rises and approaches the lectern.
"The Brodhead Prize," he says by way of introduction, "is the oldest, most prestigious award this Academy gives to the teaching staff. Voted on by the corps of cadets, the professor recognized by this prize exhibits the best traits of integrity, clarity, and commitment, both to his students and to this institution."
A slight noise from the rear of the auditorium distracts Nyota—she turns quickly, daring anyone to cause a disruption—but the noise is an innocent one—someone shifting awkwardly and loudly in a seat. When she turns back around, Nyota sees Spock already standing behind the lectern, his eyes on her.
Professor Artura might be on to something after all.
And then Spock looks around the auditorium and begins. His lecture, the one Nyota had suggested, describes the little-known and less understood Romulan dialects—all three of them—and outlines their differences. It is a project he has been working on with a native speaker, a settler on Cestis Three who claims to have been raised on a Romulan mining colony. Because she regularly sorts his work email, Nyota has kept up with the progress of his research, and over their lunches they often discuss the vocabulary and syntactical features that differentiate the dialects.
The most common dialect—at least, according to Spock's contact—is the imperial one spoken by administrators and soldiers…in fact, by most of the Romulans working for the empire.
The second dialect is spoken by everyone else: common laborers such as the miners and metalworkers, most who live on colony planets, or by merchants and handymen, people with less status than the military and government officials.
The third is the dialect spoken by people in intense relationships with each other—husbands and wives, for instance, or parents and children. All Romulans seem to know this dialect, announcing the intensity of their feelings for someone by choosing to use it.
As Spock begins to speak, Nyota relaxes her hyper-vigilance and falls into the trancelike state she sometimes feels when she is quietly focused on absorbing new information. The audience is unusually quiet, too—a good sign. Coughing or restless noises would suggest they are bored. Taking a peek around, Nyota decides the audience is enjoying the lecture, despite the somewhat esoteric subject.
"Within each of the identified dialects are two hierarchies which give more insight into Romulan society," Spock says, his voice reverberating through the large room. "Those Romulans in a dominant position speak the dominant version of each dialect—and subordinates speak a slightly different variation. The different cadence and pitch of dominant and subordinate strands is strictly observed—and anyone wishing to communicate directly to Romulans would need to know not only the language but the proper social context in order to be able to communicate well."
This variation in the dialects is what Nyota and Spock have spent most of their lunch times discussing.
"When we make contact with the Romulan Empire," Spock told her recently, "we need to have someone familiar with the culture ready to step in as the translator."
"But what we know about Romulans," Nyota had argued, "is almost nothing."
"In many ways," Spock had said, sipping a cup of hot tea and eyeing her from across the small table in the break room, "what we know about anyone is almost nothing."
They had argued about that—pleasantly, playfully—before heading back to work.
Before long Nyota can tell that Spock is wrapping up his talk. They had debated the merits of offering a Q & A—Nyota was for it, though Spock argued that anyone who needed clarification of something wasn't listening in the first place.
To Nyota's surprise, when Spock sits back down during the applause, the dean dismisses the audience without a chance to ask further questions, simply announcing the reception in the lobby.
"Very interesting," Professor Artura says to Nyota as he unfolds himself from his chair and stands. "The Commander did a fine job. You must be his lucky talisman."
Unable to resist, Nyota blurts out, "The Commander doesn't believe in luck."
She laughs then—and Professor Artura shakes his head and walks down the row toward the aisle.
A large group of cadets is milling about the front of the stage and Nyota knows that Spock must be there. He hates chitchat—she is sure of it—and she pushes her right shoulder into the group and presses forward until it opens up and she can wriggle through.
There he is, as she had imagined, standing in the center of students and other well-wishers, looking slightly nonplussed and ill at ease. From the corner of her eye she sees him—no, she feels him—searching for her, and she taps one short cadet on his arm and smiles when he turns around, annoyed, until he reluctantly steps aside.
Spock doesn't look at her directly—he is busy listening to an energetic woman in civilian clothing—but Nyota sees his shoulders ease downward, his stance soften a fraction.
He knows she is there.
She vows to stay as close as she can while he is surrounded.
Suddenly the dean's voice booms over everything.
"If you will move toward the lobby," the dean says, "we have refreshments ready. Commander Spock will be able to speak with you there."
The crowd slowly tilts toward the center aisle and Nyota takes a step forward, keeping her peripheral vision aimed on Spock. A slender sandy-haired man blocks her view for a moment, but she scoots to the side so she can see better.
He's okay, she tells herself. Stop hovering.
Just then Nyota feels the jiggle of her comm and she fishes it from her pocket.
Gaila. With a flash of irritation, Nyota thumbs the comm on and says, "This better be good. You know I'm at the lecture."
Expecting to hear a trill of apology—oh, I forgot it was tonight—Nyota is startled instead when Gaila answers with a tense, tight voice.
"I need you," Gaila says, and Nyota feels her heart knock in alarm. "I left my ID in the dorm and I need it or they won't let me leave."
"Where are you?" Nyota says, pressing one hand to her free ear to block the racket of the people passing around her. "What's happened?"
"I'm at the police station," Gaila says. "They won't let me go until I show my ID."
Another wave of people press close and Nyota steps into a row of seats and turns her back to the aisle.
"What are you talking about?" she says, cupping her palm around the comm. "Why are you at the police station?"
"A fight a Moe's," Gaila says, naming a popular off-campus bar. "Please hurry. The MP's have already taken Jim."
By now the press of people has filtered out into the lobby and Nyota follows them, scanning for Spock. Here's there, by the refreshment table, his brow furrowed in concentration as an alien professor—someone Nyota does not recognize—waves his limbs in time to staccato bursts of fricatives.
When she passes him, however, Spock looks up instantly, as if he knows she is there—and she lifts her comm and points to it.
I'll call you later.
His expression doesn't change.
She feels a wave of guilt for distracting him with what will undoubtedly end up being something foolish—a bar fight, of all things, with Jim Kirk in the middle.
The door of the auditorium slams behind her as she storms out. The quad is oddly deserted as she half-runs, half-walks up the pathway to her dorm.
Nor does she meet anyone in the hallway, though in the distance she hears muffled music blaring through a wall.
As soon as Nyota steps into her room, the overhead light snaps on, revealing the usual schizophrenic shambles—Nyota's side of the room neat and orderly, Gaila's bed and dresser hidden under colorful mounds of discarded clothes and wadded linens.
A wave of despair—how will I find anything?—and then Nyota sighs and begins searching for Gaila's Academy ID.
It is where she least expects it—on top of the dresser, easy to spy—and she grabs it and hurries back out, heading once more across the deserted quad toward the west gate and the police precinct office just down the block.
There she makes her way uneasily through the usual suspects sitting in the dingy hallway—drunks with black eyes, a surly woman holding her head in her hands, an elderly man who reaches up as Nyota walks past, saying, "Are you here to see me?"
The misery is palpable and oppressive.
In the open area at the end of the hallway Nyota sees Gaila, for once looking abashed and almost beaten down, sitting alone on a wooden bench.
"What happened?" Nyota says, handing Gaila her ID. When Gaila doesn't answer, Nyota sits beside her on the bench, letting her arm drift up to her roommate's shoulders.
"Tell me," she says softly, but instead of answering, Gaila shakes her head.
"You her roommate?" a police officer says, walking over to where the two women sit. Nyota nods and Gaila holds out her ID which the officer takes, examining it closely before handing it back.
"Okay, you can go," he says curtly, "but you might want to find better company next time."
Gaila shoots him an evil look but says nothing. Back through the hallway of misery and up the block, opening the west gate with her key card and walking stiff-legged back to the dorm—Gaila is silent, her arms wrapped around herself against the chilly night air. Nyota bites back her impulse to question her—what happened, where is Jim?—and sure enough, as soon as they are back in their room, the door shut loudly behind them, Gaila sinks into her bed, weeping.
Again Nyota forces herself to be silent and wait, sitting down beside Gaila and patting her back lightly.
"Do you want me to leave?" Nyota says after a few minutes, and Gaila sits up, snuffling loudly, rubbing the back of her hand across her nose.
"Please don't," she says. "I…need you here right now."
And then she begins to talk, painting for Nyota a picture of the evening—the bar, crowded with civilians for a change, some who had obviously been with the protesters near the auditorium earlier.
"They started as soon as we got there," Gaila says, taking the handkerchief Nyota proffers her and blowing her nose so noisily that both of them giggle. The lightened mood doesn't last, however, and Gaila frowns again and says, "Two of them made comments about Jim—saying….calling him names…for being with me."
"And that's when he started the fight," Nyota offers, but Gaila shakes her head.
"No," she says. "He was mad—but we sat at a table in the corner, thinking they would leave soon. But they didn't. They just got louder…saying he was….wrong…to be with an…alien."
"And then he hit them?"
"Not then," Gaila says. "Not until one of them called me a whore. An Orion whore."
Nyota is shocked. The Orion sex slave trade is not unknown—but the women pressed into service are victims, manipulated by traders who sell them across the quadrant.
"That's when Jim hit them," Gaila says, managing a hesitant smile. "Their friends jumped on him—but he took several more down with him. And then the police were there—and the MP's came to the station and took Jim away. He's going to spend the night in the brig, Ny, and it's my fault."
At once Nyota is furious—not with the protesters who insulted Gaila, nor even with that hothead Jim Kirk, but with the unspoken burden of guilt Gaila assumes as her own, as if she has done something wrong.
"Nothing's your fault!" she says loudly. "Jim Kirk knew what he was doing—and a night cooling off in the brig is a small price to pay."
Nyota is surprised to hear herself defending him this way—almost as surprised as Gaila, who laughs ruefully and leans over to hug her.
"I'm taking a shower," Gaila says, letting go of Nyota and grabbing a towel from a pile on the floor beside her bed.
"I'm going to call Commander Spock," Nyota says. "I had to leave the reception without explaining—"
"Don't tell him…anything," Gaila says, and the note of vulnerability in her voice—that new uncertainty that Nyota can't recall ever hearing before—almost breaks her heart.
"Just that you are okay," Nyota says as Gaila heads on to the bathroom.
But the comm line is busy—she dials twice and gets his voicemail.
What time is it anyway? She glances at the clock on her bedside table and considers. He could still be at the reception—though she expects everyone would have left by now.
More likely he is talking to someone who missed the lecture—his family, perhaps, or that woman whose image is on his picture cube—his…k'diwah….if that is what she is. The woman he went to New York to see.
The thought tightens her throat unexpectedly.
She stretches out on her own bed, willing her heart to slow down. The white noise of Gaila's shower is soothing, and in a few minutes she drifts into a fugue of fog and sleep, coming to only when a couple in the hall pass by, laughing loudly.
Gaila's gentle snoring makes Nyota smile—and she looks over at the clock. 0235. Her comm is in her jumper pocket and she tugs it out, checking her messages. Nothing. He hasn't called.
He won't be asleep—he often sends computer messages to her inbox this time of night.
And she did say she would call him. She hates to make a liar of herself.
But she hesitates.
What can she say about what happened to Gaila tonight without falling into dangerous territory—without reminding him of the pervasive otherness that surprises her even now when she has to consider her words, tries to anticipate his reaction.
Stop expecting him to act like a human.
Gaila's words—which Nyota has adopted as a mantra.
A human male might misinterpret a phone call at 0235—no, 0236—in the morning. Might read more into it than is there.
Spock might read less.
I said I would call. She rehearses the words as she punches in his number.
He answers immediately and she feels that same peculiar tightening of her throat.
"Commander?" she says, lowering her voice to a whisper as she hears a rustle from Gaila's bed. "I apologize for calling so late. Are you busy?"
"My cousin is here," Spock says, and for a moment Nyota feels stung, as if she is being dismissed.
Stop expecting him to act like a human. He's simply stating a fact.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, then," she says, but before she can click off, Spock says, "Wait a moment."
She hears the hold button engage and she has an urge to hang up. Calling was a mistake.
But before she can, Spock is back, saying, "My cousin is sleeping."
She smiles at that, trying to imagine a sleeping Vulcan. She can hardly picture Spock with his eyes closed.
"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry that I had to hurry away," she says softly, aware that the whisper implies a level of intimacy that he may find disturbing.
"An emergency?"
"Well, something like that," she says. "But it is taken care of now. At least, I hope so."
Silence on his end, and Nyota begins to wonder if he is waiting for her to explain. Or perhaps he is quiet because he is tired, or because their conversation has simply spun out to its logical end.
"Would you," he says at last, "care to come by to…talk?"
"Oh, no," she says quickly. "I really think everything will be okay. But thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."
She hangs up then, and sets her comm onto the bedside table. For a minute she lies back, still, debating whether or not to change into sleeping clothes.
With a sigh, she pulls her jumper over her head and wriggles out of the form-fitting shirt, stripping down to her underwear. That will have to do.
0247. Tomorrow will be a long day.
Just as she is finally comfortable, the itch of the sheet calmed at last, the night sounds dulled by her exhaustion, she wakes with a start.
Would you care to come by to talk?
Spock wasn't asking her for details about whatever had called her away—nor was he offering comfort. He was asking for her company. And she hadn't heard him.
X X X X X X
The only serious argument Spock ever had with his cousin Chris was about a woman.
For months afterward they hardly spoke to each other, and then only in terse, necessary communication.
Your parents are coming to Mars when I graduate from the university next month. Will you be with them?
Uncertain.
We need to talk.
Agreed.
You owe me an apology, big time.
Likewise.
The university on Mars was the right choice for Chris—he who often complained to Spock that life on Earth was too parochial, too hidebound by tradition, too close-minded for a young man looking for a change. During such discussions Spock would eye his cousin with undisguised skepticism, his raised eyebrow a clear invitation to compare Vulcan society to what Chris thought he knew about the shackles of restrictions on Earth.
Several times Spock visited Chris on the Martian colony, always finding the constraints of the climate-controlled biodomes uncomfortable. Biodomes was a misnomer, implying clear bowl-shaped constructions protecting buildings and vegetation in a natural setting. The reality was different: a series of low-ceiling buildings connected by poorly lit hallways and tunnels. Spock had no phobias, but the word claustrophobia often came to mind when he thought about life on Mars.
"How are you ever going to survive in the closed environment of a starship?" Chris asked, and Spock said, "I do not intend to try. If I apply to Starfleet, I will indicate that my interest is in pure research only."
"Where better to do research than a starship? You could study life all over the universe."
Applying to Starfleet was not a serious consideration, at any rate. Spock was still undecided whether or not to spend his energy doing do.
His father, for one, would be unhappy if he left Vulcan. And he knew no one in San Francisco—though his mother's family were still mostly on the west coast.
In the middle of Chris' last year of university, he invited Spock for a visit before exams. Although he needed to work on his Vulcan Science Academy application, Spock agreed to take off several days to see his cousin, catching a late shuttle to the Martian colony and arriving just as dawn was breaking.
Chris was not at the transport station, or what passed for one—a small alcove with several worn seats near the airlock. Too early, Spock decided, remembering Chris' penchant for sleeping in.
No matter. Even as he shifted his duffel and read the posted map showing the routes from the transport station to the university, Spock heard the characteristic whine of a small hover bus pulling up. In five more minutes he was at the front door of Chris' dorm.
From where he stood in the hallway, Spock could hear the chime inside Chris' room. That Chris might not be there—or that he could have forgotten that Spock was due to arrive that day—seemed unlikely.
Spock pressed the chime again.
After 37 seconds, a thump—and then footsteps to the door.
"You're here," Chris said, tenting his hand over his eyes, squinting at the hall light.
"Obviously." Spock started forward into the room. To his surprise, Chris put up his hand and tapped him on the chest.
"Give me a minute," he said, shutting the door.
Scuffling—and more thuds—and then the door reopened, this time with the lights on inside. Pulling on a long robe, Chris motioned Spock in.
The room was a shambles. Every drawer that could be opened was. Clothes and electronic equipment were scattered and piled around the walls in uneven stacks. Trays of half-eaten food littered the tops of the desk and the dresser.
And sprawled across the bed was the most striking woman Spock had ever seen—her skin almost the color of an Orion but her shapely, pointed ears and upswept brows suggesting a different heritage.
"You're Chris' cousin?" she said in accented Standard. Too startled to speak, Spock nodded and the woman laughed, draping a thin scarf over her shoulders.
"Why didn't you tell me your cousin was a Vulcan?" she asked, reaching her hand toward Chris who obligingly sat next to her on the bed, tucking her arm under his elbow.
"I guess I forgot," Chris said. "Besides," he said, letting his gaze linger on the woman before looking up at Spock, "he's only half Vulcan. His mother is my aunt."
"A human," the woman said, sitting up and pulling her arm back. "I didn't know that was possible."
By now Spock was distinctly uncomfortable. He was intruding—though neither Chris nor the woman seemed as distressed as he felt. With one part of his attention he began calculating the cost and time necessary for an immediate trip back home.
"I'm C'rina, by the way," the woman said, standing up and reaching her hand toward Spock.
Setting his duffel down on the floor, Spock slipped his hands behind his back. C'rina broke into another peal of laughter.
"I should have introduced you," Chris said. "C'rina ir-Levaeri, this is S'chn T'gai Spock. Now that's done—let's go get breakfast."
"My time might be better spent arranging transport home," Spock said, trying to keep his annoyance out of his voice.
"Don't be ridiculous," Chris said, standing back up from the bed. "You just got here."
"I'm making your cousin uncomfortable," C'rina said. "I'll catch up with you later."
As she sauntered past him, Spock felt a peculiar shift in the air temperature and caught a whiff of something musky but not unpleasant, like truffles or fermented plomeek.
An incredible woman, really bright, and very different, Chris had told him breathlessly the last time they had spoken by subspace radio, not mentioning C'rina by name. I've never met anyone like her.
Their mutual interest in medicine had put them in many of the same classes, though Chris was already seriously considering psychiatry and C'rina was interested in a career in public health—something about her own history as a refugee informing her decision.
When he saw her, Spock felt the disjointed pieces of several conversations with his cousin falling into place.
He suddenly knew why Chris had invited him here. He wanted him to meet C'rina.
"Sorry about that," Chris said, rifling through one drawer and disentangling a wrinkled shirt. "I thought you'd be on the mid-morning flight. But that's okay. I needed to get up."
Spock said nothing but watched Chris dress and then followed him to the dining hall. Only a few students were there—though Spock couldn't recall ever seeing many on his previous visits.
"Enrollment is down," Chris said when Spock asked him about it. "That's why the university is offering such generous scholarships. That's why C'rina is here."
"She grew up on a Romulan colony," Spock said. It was not a question, and he sensed Chris' surprise.
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"Her name. Her given name is of Orion origin—and she appears to have some Orion ancestry."
Chris led the way to the beverage station in the corner of the dining hall and poured two mugs of coffee, handing one to Spock. They threaded their way back through the tumble of chairs and small tables to one near the door, sitting opposite each other.
"Her mother was an Orion," Chris said, taking a tentative sip of his coffee. "But that doesn't explain how you knew she grew up on a Romulan colony."
"Levaeri V was a military outpost and a mining colony that employed slave labor," Spock said, warming his hands around his mug. "Romulans take as part of their given names the location where they were born or raised. Her unusual genetics—and her atypical names—led me to a logical deduction."
"Naturally," Chris said, and for a moment Spock thought he heard something negative in his tone. When Chris spoke again, however, his voice was even and controlled.
"When the Romulans abandoned Levaeri," Chris said, almost as if he were delivering a formal lecture, "they left behind the slaves and their offspring. C'rina remembers her mother—barely—but she isn't sure who her father is. Probably a Romulan soldier—"
"She could do a genetics trace to find out," Spock said, and Chris shook his head.
"Nope. She doesn't want it. She says the past is the past and should stay there. Can't say I blame her."
For a moment neither spoke, and then Chris said, "Still…I…wanted you to meet her. I know that Romulans and Vulcans aren't the same, but I wanted her to see that…."
For the first time that he could recall, Spock felt like an alien to Chris—or like an object being used to make a point. He felt a flash of disappointment—no, something stronger than that. Anger. Idly he rubbed the scar on his thumb and tried to regain his sense of equilibrium.
"This is a serious relationship?"
"Yes," Chris said, ducking his head down and staring into his coffee. "At least, I hope it can be. If she sees that is it possible—after all, if a Vulcan and a human can forge a successful marriage—"
"Vulcans are not Romulans," Spock said so quickly that Chris tipped his head up in surprise.
"I know that," Chris said. "I didn't mean to suggest that they are—"
"From what we know about them, Romulans—the Rihannsu—are a military dictatorship. Their society and traditions are closed to outsiders. Even learning their language is a challenge. The little we know comes from social outcasts who have broken the code of mnhei'sahe—"
"Stop!" Chris said, setting his coffee on the table and placing his palm flat on the table between them. "I know all that already. But it doesn't change how I feel. C'rina isn't responsible for her background and she shouldn't be judged for it. I thought you would understand that."
In a flash Spock was back in Seattle with Chris and his two sisters—the four of them as children sitting legs akimbo in a circle, their hands gently touching, playing mailman.
Or another time, the three Thomassons gleefully deciding to ambush the neighborhood bullies who had given Spock a hard time, Spock's secret delight at his cousins' planned violence, his reluctant insistence that they do nothing instead.
"I…" Spock began, but he faltered.
Chris looked at him hard—his eyes narrowed—and then he scrubbed his hand across his sandy hair and sighed.
"It's okay," he said, swallowing the last of his coffee. "It's just…confusing to know what to do."
Indeed. The next three days were a maelstrom of confusion—Chris often rushing off to class and leaving Spock to fend for himself, or worse, dragging him to large social gatherings, always with C'rina there in the background, watching him with what Spock sensed was disapproval, though for what he could not imagine.
A few times she struck up conversations with him. Once they spoke about his application to the Vulcan Science Academy—C'rina expressing concern that he would have nowhere to go if he weren't accepted.
"My performance in school has been exemplary," Spock said matter-of-factly, eliciting one of C'rina's signature laughs. "I have no reason to believe I will not be accepted."
"Ah," she said, still smiling, "if I've learned one thing, it is that the universe is not so predictable as you would like. You can't say with certainty that you know anything about your future."
That was true. Intellectually he conceded that. But emotionally—and that really was the right word—he felt he would be accepted.
Still—he ought to consider C'rina's words more carefully.
"Your own future," he said, looking around the crowded room until he saw Chris on the other side, chatting with a tall, balding man with a goatee. "Have you made plans for next year?"
From the corner of his eye Spock saw C'rina react, becoming more compact, her arms crossing and her shoulders rising.
"Medical school, of course," she said, darting a glance in his direction. "In Boston. They have the best public health program."
"And Chris?"
"You will have to ask him."
"He says he is applying to Boston as well. And perhaps San Francisco."
Instead of answering, C'rina busied herself with retying the sash that accented her waist.
"What are you two doing over here?" Chris said, handing C'rina a small glass of something bright pink.
"Talking about you," she said, looking at Spock over the top of her glass. Chris slipped his hand to her shoulder and Spock had that same odd sensation that he had the first time he had met C'rina, of feeling a wave of heat radiating from her body, a spicy scent wafting across the short distance. Chris smiled broadly.
Another evening they talked about Romulan dialects.
"What I do not understand," Spock said, "is why each dialect has two variations. How do the speakers know whether to use the dominant or submissive voice?"
"Who's been teaching you Romulan dialects?" C'rina asked.
"My father knows someone who sought asylum on Vulcan," he said. "He taught me the basic syntax and a working vocabulary, but I do not understand why—"
"I don't speak the language anymore," C'rina said abruptly, angrily. "I was never allowed to speak the dominant variety—so I can't help you out there. No one on Levaeri was allowed…we were nothing to them."
Her voice came crashing down on Spock's ears.
"I apologize if I have offended you," he said, dismayed that his curiosity had opened what was apparently an old wound.
"I'm not offended," C'rina said, still angry. "And I'm not ashamed."
She left the party then, to Chris' surprise.
"What did you say to her?" he asked Spock when he rejoined him, a note of accusation in his voice.
But Spock didn't answer and the two of them soon left the party as well, falling into a long, rambling conversation back in Chris' room.
"Wouldn't it be funny if we both ended up in San Francisco next year?" Chris said, to which Spock replied, "I have not yet decided to apply to Starfleet."
"And really, I'm going to Boston," Chris said, stifling a yawn. "C'rina isn't even considering any other place."
The night before he was scheduled to fly home, Spock stayed behind in the room while Chris met with an exam study group.
A few minutes after Chris left, the door chimed. Lately his cousin seemed more scattered than Spock remembered, often leaving his key card in the room and having to get the residence manager to let him in. Pulling open the door and expecting to see Chris standing there, Spock was startled to see C'rina instead.
"Can I come in?" she asked, but rather than moving out of the doorway, Spock said, "Chris is not here."
C'rina was almost as tall as Spock, thin and lithesome, her auburn hair falling over one shoulder. Unlike the other times he had seen her, when she had worn revealing or provocative clothing, tonight she had on a simple shift nipped in at her waist with a narrow belt.
The effect, Spock decided, was more appealing than the way she usually dressed.
Immediately he chastised himself for the thought. C'rina's appearance was none of his concern. He slowed his breathing and tried to sense T'Pring through their bond. She was there but so faint that she slipped out of his consciousness before he was aware.
"Do I have to stand here in the hall to talk to you?"
That same musky scent trailed after C'rina when he moved back and she stepped inside.
"Last night," she began, her back turned to Spock, "I…reacted badly when you asked about Romulan dialects. I wanted to…apologize."
"No apology necessary."
"I think so," she said, turning toward him.
"I assure you—"
"You don't like me very much, do you?" she said suddenly.
Spock felt a wave of disorientation. He wasn't, in fact, sure how he felt about C'rina. She was important to Chris—and for his sake, Spock tried to be dispassionate when he considered her at all.
But some of her behaviors threw him out of kilter. Her habit of laughing at him, for instance—almost as if she were refusing to take him seriously. As if she were trying to dominate him.
And her diversions away from the conversation when he spoke about Chris—as if she were indifferent or bored.
"You don't have to answer that," she said, letting her hand drift over the clutter on the top of the dresser. "I can see that you don't."
"I have no feelings for you at all," Spock said. "I hardly know you."
Not quite the truth, not quite a lie.
"What you think you know is enough," C'rina said, turning back toward him. "Did you know, for instance, that in Romulan, the intensive, dominant form of beloved is almost the same as it is in Vulcan?"
She stepped closer and Spock felt a tendril of alarm.
Or desire.
Or both.
"K'ditha," she said, the tip of her tongue brushing her teeth lightly. "See how close? We are not so different after all, you and I."
For a heartbeat he was silent, and then Spock said, "Dominant and submissive forms do not exist in the Vulcan language. You are…mistaken to draw a parallel."
In the dim light of the room, Spock could see C'rina narrow her gaze briefly, as if in anger. But then she closed the distance between them and stood close enough that he could feel the heat rolling from her.
"Always so logical, so unfeeling. You cannot be dominated," she said softly, and to his dismay, Spock felt himself leaning against his will toward her, his hand slowly lifting of its own accord to circle her waist.
"No," C'rina said, pressing her hand against his arm. "Not yet."
And then, as if in a trance, Spock saw himself shift almost imperceptibly, like eelgrass caught in an underwater tow.
C'rina flicked her fingers on the hem of his shirt and tugged, and Spock lifted his arms like an obedient child, his skin prickling in the sudden cool of the air as his shirt came free over his head.
He slipped his arms toward her again but she was too quick for him, bending down and grazing his left nipple with her teeth, even as she slid her right hand into his trousers, her fingertips brushing his lok—
"What are you doing?"
Chris stood in the doorway, his key card still in one hand, his other hand balled into a fist.
A lightning bolt flashed through Spock, nailing him to the floor.
Her back to the door, C'rina pulled her hands together and stood up straight. Without a word she walked past Chris, leaving the door open behind her.
For a moment Chris stood there, his face stricken, and then he, too, turned and left.
Shortly afterward, Spock loaded his duffel and caught a hover to the transport station, spending the few hours until his scheduled flight sitting motionless on the worn bench near the airlock.
You owe me an apology, big time, Chris wrote later.
Likewise, Spock replied.
Though he could hardly articulate to himself how he had been wronged.
They did not speak about C'rina for months—not until the beginning of the academic year when they met up in San Francisco for a quick meal in a cheap diner, two refugees from futures that did not unfold at the Vulcan Science Academy and Boston Memorial, looking for a place where they could be blood brothers once more.
X X X X X X X X
He's going to be late.
If he turns left at the alley on West Avenue instead of continuing to Commerce Street and increases his speed by a factor of one and half, he can cut two minutes, 34 seconds from his travel time.
Nyota will be concerned. If her blood sugar is falling in anticipation of a meal, she might even be annoyed.
Or she might attribute his tardiness to a spate or recent behaviors that bear consideration.
Leaving his comm at work the other day, for instance.
Or more telling—and to him, much more disturbing—his loss of composure when he speaks with her—his odd slips of the tongue that embarrass him.
Slips that reveal what he is thinking—as if his brain and his tongue are in traitorous mutiny against his sense of who he is.
Today at lunch, for instance. He was going over one part of his lecture—a detailed example of the Romulan intensive dialect, and his tongue had run ahead of him, startling them both.
"The intensive modality," he said as Nyota leaned back in her chair, "shows that Romulans, for all their secrecy surrounding their social order, are as emotionally invested in close relationships as Vulcans or humans."
At that Nyota had quirked a smile and he stopped his recitation.
"As Vulcans?" she said. "I didn't know that Vulcans were emotionally invested in relationships."
Her words were surprisingly hurtful—a slap, a label. He drained his face of any expression and willed himself to breathe normally.
But she was too intuitive for him. He saw her face twist with distress.
"I'm sorry…that didn't come out right…it's just that, as we've been studying…as I've been studying…the language, I don't remember learning any words that dealt with emotion—"
She stammered to a halt and pressed her hands flat against her thighs. From past experience Spock knew this was a signal that she would stand up shortly and leave. The idea that she misunderstood him—and more, that she would get up and walk away—was so upsetting that he said aloud what he had heard himself say only in his troubled dreams: "K'diwa."
"What?" she said, and he hastened to add, "It is the word that Vulcans use to address each other in intensive relationships."
"Oh," Nyota said softly, as if from a great distance.
"Similar to the Romulan word," Spock said, keeping his eyes fixed on his cooling tea mug on the table. "In Romulan, beloved is k'ditha. Though only in the dominant form. There is no equivalent in the submissive strand."
His matter-of-fact tone was a shameless scramble to regain control—to unsay the word that had betrayed him.
"Beloved?" Nyota said.
"In the dominant strand. Spoken by those in control."
"And no word for those in submission? No…equivalent?"
"No," Spock said, lifting his gaze and meeting her eyes again. Something had changed between them—some awkwardness that had not been there before, some distance that was waiting to be traveled.
"I wonder why," Nyota said.
C'rina's face flashed in his memory.
"Because, " Spock said, "the conquered does not…long for…the conqueror."
He knew he was being obtuse—but Nyota asked no further questions and they finished their lunch and went back to work.
Despite leaving for the dean's office early that afternoon, Spock realized almost as soon as he got to the administration building that he was hasty in planning to meet Nyota for a meal before the lecture.
Because the loyalty oath had to be signed on actual paper—a distrust of electronic signatures less quaint than inconvenient—the office was packed, most of the professors having decided, like Spock, to wait until the last day to sign. And then the briefing ran long—a review of the most recent intelligence about the anti-alien movements and a warning that they might try to disrupt Academy functions until the anger fueling them either burned out or was deflected somewhere else.
From the end of the block he sees her standing in front of the restaurant, waving to him. As she lifts her arm he notices, as he always does these days, how lithe and graceful she is, how centered her balance is, like a gymnast or a dancer.
Not tonight. He has to focus tonight.
No more slips. He doesn't trust himself to speak and nods to her instead.
Once inside he calculates how long the meal preparation will take. The odds are high that they will be late to the lecture if their meal is not served within the next seven minutes.
"Tea," Spock says to the waiter who approaches their table with menus in hand. "And you?"
He sees Nyota give some sort of unspoken signal to the waiter. A plea for him to hurry, perhaps?
"Yes, please. Tea for both of us."
When the waiter moves away, Nyota puts her folded menu on the table and looks up.
"What happened?"
"I apologize for being late," he says. "I was…detained."
At some level he is ashamed of having signed the loyalty oath and does not want to discuss it. Starfleet's asking for the oath is wrong, and giving in to the demand feels equally wrong.
But from the first meeting about it, he had known he would sign. History will show that this is not Starfleet's finest moment—that the Federation is allowing suspicion and race hatred to determine policies that should be based on reason and logic.
No matter. Until then, he has no choice in the matter.
Still, it is what his mother would call galling.
"What happened?" Nyota says again, but the waiter appears with an old-fashioned tablet and pen.
"Tea only," Spock says after Nyota orders.
"You aren't going to eat?"
"After the lecture," he says, and she sits back.
"Aren't you going to tell me why you were late? And explain why you didn't call?"
He didn't call. The realization hits him like an electric shock. He hadn't even considered it—so distracted—so haunted—he had been by…everything. The oath, the briefing.
And most of all, by the word that he had spoken as they sat at lunch—that taboo, heartfelt declaration, that word he has never once used with T'Pring, cannot imagine speaking to anyone else.
Except to the woman sitting across the table from him, unaware of the roiling emotions that take so much energy to keep in check.
In a few stumbling sentences he catches her up on his afternoon, and almost as soon as her food is set down, she says she is ready to go.
As they walk the two blocks back to the campus, Spock tells her that the anti-alien movement may offer some protest of the lecture—and sure enough, as they near the campus, he sees a group carrying placards filing past the north gate.
For a moment he debates hanging back and letting Nyota go on through without him.
But that feels like a defeat of sorts. He walks with her through the crowd.
Putting his hand in his pocket to take out his ID, Spock notices one of the MP's giving him a curt hand signal—go on through.
"Go home!" someone yells from the crowd.
"I'm…sorry," Nyota stammers. Spock says nothing, too angry to risk speaking.
When they reach the auditorium steps, Spock starts up and then pauses, waiting for Nyota. Uniformed cadets and several officers hurry up the steps ahead of them.
The Brodhead Lecture has always been open to the public, which explains the number of civilians seated when they reach the auditorium. And not surprisingly, the newsfeeds have made an issue of an alien winning the prize.
At the front of the auditorium, Spock feels Nyota slip away to the front row, where language faculty members and professors in the computer science department are already waiting. Spock heads on up the steps and makes his way to a chair beside the dean and assistant dean on the stage.
In a few moments the lights dim twice and the murmuring fades to silence. The dean rises and approaches the lectern.
"The Brodhead Prize," he says, "is the oldest, most prestigious award this Academy gives to the teaching staff. Voted on by the corps of cadets, the professor recognized by this prize exhibits the best traits of integrity, clarity, and commitment, both to his students and to this institution."
From the back of the auditorium a chair squeaks—and Spock sees Nyota swivel around in her seat, her air unmistakably defiant.
That she is upset on his behalf is strangely comforting.
Spock looks around the auditorium and begins. His lecture, the one Nyota had suggested, describes the little-known and less understood Romulan dialects—all three of them—and explains their differences. It is a project he has been working on with someone Chris introduced him to, a friend from the university, who like C'rina, had been raised on Levaeri. Although the topic is rather specialized, Spock is gratified at the audience's attentiveness.
As he explains the differences in the three Romulan dialects, pointing out the importance of domination and submission in the social strata, he is momentarily jolted to see Chris sitting near the back of the auditorium.
Nyota. She must have notified his contact list about the lecture. That would explain the preponderance of people here—former students and acquaintances, and even a chess partner from the now defunct Academy club.
At the conclusion of Spock's lecture the dean announces the reception—foregoing any unnecessary questions from the floor.
As the audience stands and starts to mill about, he locates Nyota in the crowd, first by reaching out to feel her presence, and then by finding her in his field of vision. She is rising from her seat, chatting with Professor Artura. If he hurries, he can get to her before he has to talk to anyone else.
The crowd, however, has other plans, and as soon as he leaves the stage, he is surrounded. Beating back an irrational feeling of claustrophobia, he forces himself to speak to everyone who addresses him, trying to be polite, to follow the social niceties that his mother has in the past accused him of deliberately ignoring.
Even so, when he moves his gaze from one well-wisher to another, he is careful to track Nyota's proximity—first to his left, and then, as she forces her way closer, almost at his elbow.
Apparently the crowd isn't dispersing quickly enough, and the dean flips on the mike and asks everyone to go to the lobby.
Careful to keep his arms and hands tucked away from the moving crowd, Spock makes his way down the center aisle.
"Congratulations!"
His cousin steps in front of him, smiling widely—and Spock feels the familiar warm pleasure of Chris' company—the belonging and affection that Chris offers freely. He turns to include Nyota in the conversation but she has ducked into a side row and is talking on her comm.
"My aide sent an announcement," Spock says, and Chris nods.
"You've been on the news," Chris says. "This is a big deal."
"Only because of the political situation," Spock says, leading the way out into the lobby. "I hardly think a lecture on Romulan dialects merits a news story."
"Oh, I don't know," Chris says playfully. "Lots of people find Romulans interesting."
Only now—after several years—are they able to joke about it.
The cousins walk together to the refreshment table, Chris offering Spock a drink and Spock declining, preferring instead to finish talking to the people who are obviously not going to leave without speaking to him. Suppressing a sigh, he listens to an agitated Medorian who argues that Spock has completely misinterpreted the importance of tonality in the imperial Romulan dialect.
A flux in his focus—unbidden and astonishing—and he looks up and sees Nyota, pointing to her comm.
The earlier phone call—she is alluding to it and letting him know that she has to attend to something.
His gaze follows her to the door. When it slams shut behind her, he feels disoriented, bereft.
The rest of the reception is interminable—24.5 minutes. No one has told him the protocol, but he assumes he has to stay until the last audience member leaves. At last he and Chris are the only two in the lobby.
"I was planning to stay tonight," Chris says, "unless I am interrupting…other plans."
Tilting his head at his cousin, Spock quirks one side of his mouth.
"As I recall, you were the one who on occasion had other plans."
"That you were known to interrupt."
They walk the rest of the way in near silence to Spock's apartment.
After palming the lights on beside the door and ratcheting the temperature controls down for Chris, Spock heads to the kitchen, lingering for a moment in front of the open cooler.
"Hungry?" Chris asks, coming up behind him, and Spock realizes that despite having eaten nothing all day, he is not hungry at all. Perhaps he is unwell—that might explain his loss of appetite, his…slips…in control.
Reaching around him, Chris takes an apple from the cooler shelf and walks back to the sofa, stretching out. Spock follows and eases himself into the chair.
"Your father looks good for someone who just had major heart surgery a week ago," Chris says, jarring Spock.
"You've seen him?"
"Rachel has. She went for her second round of interviews yesterday."
Spock's mother had mentioned this—the fact that Rachel was proposing a research project to the Vulcan Science Academy using telepathic healers to reach humans unable to speak…such as stroke or accident victims. Somehow her actually visiting Vulcan hadn't registered—another symptom of his distractibility of late.
"I have not spoken to my father since the surgery," Spock says, watching Chris nibble the apple to its core. "But Mother agrees that he is doing well."
"Perhaps you should see for yourself," Chris says, giving Spock a look meant to chastise him.
His apple finished, Chris hops up, picks up his travel case from the floor, and heads down the hall.
"Do you mind if I take a shower?" he says, not waiting for an answer. When Spock hears the water begin, he does what he has wanted to do all evening. He calls Nyota.
But the comm line is busy—he dials twice and gets her voicemail.
The noise of Chris' shower is oddly soothing, the way rare rainstorms on Vulcan are invitations to relax and meditate without the aid of an asenoi.
He needs to meditate—the day has been eventful and stressful in so many ways that he feels overwhelmed, as if he is drowning again, like that day at the river when he heard Chris' head hit the spillway with a sickening crack.
The asenoi is in his bedroom—beyond reach now that Chris is settling in for the night.
The ka'athyra might offer some solace, but it, too, is in the bedroom.
The book of poetry, however, is on the shelf in the living area.
When he lifts it up, the book falls open to a well-thumbed page.
I am drawn to you against my will. I ravish you in my dreams.
Not helpful at all. At all.
He closes the book and clears his mind, sinking into the oblivion of a light sleep.
Hours later when his comm chimes quietly, rousing him, he answers immediately.
"Commander?" he hears Nyota say so softly that he surmises she wants to avoid being overheard by someone nearby. "I apologize for calling so late. Are you busy?"
"My cousin is here," Spock says, unsettled to hear her at this time of night. She might be in some distress…or injured…
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, then," she says, but before she can click off, Spock says, "Wait a moment."
Relief washes over him and he is able to think clearly again.
From where he is sitting, he can hear Chris' erratic snores.
"My cousin is sleeping."
"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry that I had to hurry away," she says softly, the whisper in her voice singularly arousing.
"An emergency?"
"Well, something like that," she says. "But it is taken care of now. At least, I hope so."
He is overwhelmed with an urgency to see her—the memorized whorl of her ear not just in his memory but in his sight, the rasp of her boot on the carpet, the scent of soap as she leans forward in concentration, listening as he tells her all she doesn't know.
What it has been like to grow up apart, citizen of nowhere—and the particular pleasures, as well, of the alien sensibilities that define him.
While Chris is here in the next room he is safe—Chris' presence a harbor against temptation…she could be sitting here right now…
"Would you," he says at last, "care to come by to…talk?"
"Oh, no," she says quickly. "I really think everything will be okay. But thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."
Sorrow when she hangs up—the word is not too strong. And relief.
What he might have been tempted to say, unguarded like this, dominated.
A/N: Next week is Thanksgiving in the U.S.—and what I am thankful for are you, dear readers, for staying with such a long story! A special thanks to everyone who reviews—you are the reason I continue to write.
Thanks, also, for StarTrekFanWriter. Her many, many terrific stories are listed in my faves. Her newest one, "Accidental Intruder," is quite a ride!