Greyson's House

Front Deck, following the Salish Memorial

Jim Kirk's POV

Humble.

That's how I feel lined up with a handful of people who've lost everything yet can still stand here with their calm dignity intact. Even these little kids, for god's sake: no tears, no ranting, no raving: no accusations or excuses: just this powerful calm...acceptance. What is the Vulcan phrase? Kaiidth? What is, is?

I'm not made that way. I was born fighting my circumstances, fighting to survive. I struggle, rant…even cheat to survive, to make things right. I've spent my life cheating death. For that matter, did I save Earth or did I cheat Death out of destroying it?

What would I be doing had Earth been destroyed? Not this. I wouldn't be calm. Or numb, if that's what it really is. Vulcan wasn't my home and still its destruction makes me want to drop to my knees, screaming. I may, yet.

Spock's only reaction to this memorial was glancing down for a moment when Admiral Toms spoke his mother's name. He just stands there cool as a cucumber. Jesus. I know his mother's death affected him: hell, I saw the look on his face in the transporter room when they'd beamed up without her. But judging by the way he looks now, who would believe those of us who can tell the tale?

Some long, meaningful look lingers between Admiral Toms and Sarek, something deep and determined. Toms steps back from Sarek, giving him the Vulcan salute, then gives Spock and me a nod before turning to follow the last of the dancers as they retreat down the hill. He walks slowly, seeming to carry all the dignity of his people in his steps as he goes.

Fleet has always tried to celebrate the diversity of peoples within the Federation. Admiral Toms' uniform reflects this, and has been modified to reflect his cultural heritage; multicolor ribbons hang from the shoulders, and a simple fringe runs beneath the arms. His hat is interesting, too: high crowned and hand woven from cedar strips: its wide, down-turned brim seems like a sensible design for shedding Seattle's relentless rain.

Toms and his people understand the Vulcans' circumstance: genocide and the struggle for survival. They understand the outrage of it and have struggled for generations to this hard won grace. And the Salish didn't offer the Vulcans just words. They physically demonstrated the very survival of their culture: in the beauty of their canoe journey, the variety of their simple dark ceremonial clothes emblazoned with shells and embroidery; dancing with formality, the women whirling in shawls with long strands of colorful fringe flying. Their shawls and clothing were covered in the graphic and complex rectilinear designs of Salish art; some designs clearly personal, some family or clan designs: bears, eagles, raven, beaver, frog, orca. The stylized red and white patterns stood out elegantly against the typically black wool clothing: glistening dots of mother of pearl shell buttons outlined designs. Some had tin cone jingles attached to their regalia to clatter in prayer; most wore the long white shards of dentalium shells in multiple necklace strands-both decorative and a demonstration of traditional wealth. I wondered what the Vulcans would understand of this ancient and rich culture of Earth, but they had seemed as entranced by it all as us lesser mortals.

The little Vulcan kids look lost now that the dance and presentation have ended. They're starting to fidget and look around like they don't know what to do next, and start to break rank and wander. Spock doesn't move or speak. He just stands still, his eyes distant, staring off across the Sound. His father-regal in his full Vulcan ambassadorial robes-stands still, too, but for a barely perceptible shaking of his head.

Sarek studies the glittered candle Toms gave him, turning it in his hands. Unexpectedly, he murmurs to no one in particular, "I proposed to her here. Twice."

Spock looks toward his father, but the Ambassador as quickly turns away. Sarek spins sharply on his heel and strides into the house, leaving Spock to stare after him.

The Vulcan woman in the dark clerk's robes—T'Zel?—puts a hand on Admiral Greyson's arm for support and Greyson responds by gently slipping an arm around the Vulcan woman's shoulders, surprising me when she doesn't recoil. T'Zel's simple gesture of distress is by far the most understandable one I've seen from any of the Vulcans here.

Spock doesn't move, just stares after Sarek's hasty retreat. I know better than to project human responses onto Vulcans, but it's hard not to imagine that the Vulcan Ambassador himself could be struggling to control his emotions.

I want to say something, anything, but Spock won't want my condolences. I rock a little, back on my heels, trying to come up with something culturally appropriate to say.

"Incredible control, Spock." I offer it quietly, trying to put a positive spin on his irritatingly cool demeanor; trying for once to say something that doesn't offend him.

He flashes me a hard look, and I realize he's taken it wrong. His eyes narrow and he obviously thinks I'm being sarcastic. "Ah, Spock…no hidden meaning there."

He looks down, frowning slightly, and fusses with his black traveling cloak, running his fingers over the silver Vulcan script embroidered along its lapel. I look away. I'm irritated at myself for the misstep and with him for being so damned difficult. He clearly doesn't think he's controlling well at all, and that I'm calling him on it.

Coming here was a gamble. I'm starting to think it was a mistake.

"Control…is the Vulcan way." He says it with such an affected tone that I realize it's meant with humor: he's backpedaling at his own expense. "Captain."

When I turn his face is unreadable, but he gives me the slightest ironic lift of one eyebrow. Well, that's new. I didn't know he could make light of himself. "Spock, I…"

"I shall ensure my father's well-being." He adds quickly, stiffly, and heads for the house as abruptly as Sarek.