Tes held her breath – illogical – and exhaled 409.497581 kilometers from where she'd been standing. Looking out onto the world of the ship.
People with slashes of bright color across their torsos stood in stark relief against pale, slick surfaces, schematic threads of light suspended in the air above them. She squeezed her eyes shut, felt the subtle press of artificial gravity, the soft thrum of engines beneath her feet. In her ears, incessant activity punctuated by crisply spoken Standard.
The only other ship she'd known was the T'Sai Suk – home – all soft browns and grays, with big cushions and a big round table, brimming bowls and heaping platters of food. She remembered patterned blankets on the bulkheads, warm laps, warm thoughts, hammock swings. The cockpit where Father sometimes let them sit. Crawling with her cousins over cargo in the holds and hiding in between until Grandfather sent his displeasure and come out of there!
Mr. Spock tugged gently at her sleeve. She opened her eyes. They stepped from the platform. A male human in red shirt and black trousers joined them. Doors parted onto wide corridors that gleamed cool and clean. "This transporter room is closest to the Medical Bay and suitable for non-emergency purposes," Spock said. "We will arrive there in approximately two minutes."
She appreciated his efforts to provide information to ease her discomfort, but there were so many people in the corridor. "Shift change," the red shirt man said. Her mother made a tiny sound and Tes sensed a constriction in Spock's general quietude. It made the short journey to the Medical Bay more difficult considering her mother's affliction. Human minds and mouths were loud. She'd also been told that humans stank. That's what the soldiers at the compound said. Humans smelled so bad they had to be kept separate from other slaves and were only permitted to work outside in the open air. But she did not find the odor intolerable. In fact, she was far more aware of her own smelly molecular cloud travelling the corridor with her, dirt ground into her tunic, grime beneath her fingernails, the stink embedded in her pores and caught in the snarls of her hair. Humans smiled as she passed, sometimes showing teeth. Was her face dirty, too?
Flanked by Spock and the redshirt human (whose hand never left the energy weapon at his belt), Mother barely picked up her feet as she walked. The blanket Spock had draped over her shoulders before they beamed up was arranged in such a way that passersby could not easily observe her hands bound in front of her. The blanket was not a logical necessity. It was a consideration of her dignity. It was a kindness.
Prisu would not have seen it that way. She was not favorably disposed towards Spock and not merely because of Mother. "He is not your savior. He rescued you from Kaol because he was assigned that task. It was his duty. The timing was fortunate but not by his design or intention. If he favors you now, you'll do well to remember that any favors men do for you will exact a price eventually."
But he didn't have to put a blanket over Mother's shoulders. That was a compassionate act. And hadn't Sarek himself written about the logic of compassion? That an action taken for the well-being of others was restorative to self and community? Spock was kind and he had saved her. Perhaps he could yet save—
Mother's mind tapped at hers like a nocturnal insect bumping against the compound's luminaires. Not inside, not all the way, more … a fluttery nudge at her left temple then behind her eyes. Tes must have reacted, a sound perhaps, because Spock looked down at her over the edge of his shoulder just as the doors to the medical facility opened and the tapping stopped.
The activity inside did not slow at their arrival. They were seen, acknowledged, and then ignored. A moment later a person with blue flesh, white hair and ball tipped antennae approached.
Andorian!
Tes had been on Andor once, in a port city when the T'Sai Suk took on cargo. She got to go provisioning with her mother and aunts, bundled up in layers of clothing because it was very cold. There was snow! She sat in a hover-cart with her cousin Tan as the goods piled in around them higher and higher until Tan started crying because he couldn't see. It was strange how so many memories from before were pushing to the front of her thoughts.
"Good evening, Mr. Spock," the Andorian said. "As per your instructions, we have prepared a room to your specifications and the path to it should be clear of potential obstructions or provocations."
"Thank you, Nurse Bast. Will you be attending?"
"I am the most qualified, sir."
He tipped his head in acknowledgment, turned to Tes. "Once your mother is made comfortable, I will return for you—" Her protest was cut off by a sharp look. "Until then our chief medical officer informed me that Shashi is recovered enough to receive a quiet and well-behaved visitor."
Mr. Malemo hits the mechanism to unlock the cuffs, lets them fall to the floor and kicks them aside for retrieval later, one hand on his phaser. For a moment, this caution strikes Spock as ridiculous, though it is at his behest. Nurse Bast stays out of arm's reach.
"Perren," Bast says. Perren looks at her from under hooded eyelids. "You are in a medical facility. The bed is diagnostic and serves also to aid in rest and recovery. You will be restrained across the body in four places—" Bast indicates the areas on her own body— "and will remain so until the diagnostic program is complete. This bed is used for no other purpose. You are safe here. Do you understand?"
"Your assurances are unnecessary," Perren says. She slowly climbs onto the bed and stretches her body out flat, arms at her sides, her feet turning out slightly at the ankles. The soles of her slippers are filthy, but her clothing cannot be removed until she is sedated. She surveys the ceiling with the sterile field projector overhead. Her words slip off her tongue in slow measured drops. "It would be illogical of me to resist. What is, is. I have done what needed doing."
Bast dips her antennae forward and triggers the restraints on the bed. They slide into place. As an added precaution, she fits security mitts over Perren's hands, careful not to touch the flesh, tightening the bands around her wrists.
Perren's psi-mind spasms intermittently like a muscle jerking her awake on the edge of sleep. He can feel it. She turns her head to focus on him, her gaze soft and unnerving. Then her eyes open wide in a disturbing and familiar terror. A sharp shock hits him like a blow to the sternum—
She's fallen off the edge. Into an abyss.
He stumbles back a step, and another, one foot out the door as if to flee before regaining his composure. Thankfully, his reaction has gone unnoticed. Perren's eyes are shuttered now, fine lines crimping the corners, indicating pain. Pain is what he saw. Whatever reminded him of his mother is gone. Except for the guilt. Guilt covers everything like an algal bloom. A smothering guilt that eschews forgiveness.
He knows his mother forgave his many varied (and in retrospect) small infractions regularly, long before she died. Everything he'd said or done, the ways in which he'd caused her pain, any childish insults formed out of insecurity and couched in logic were, she explained, quite normal between parents and their offspring. "Did you think you were the first snarky adolescent boy in the history of the universe to be embarrassed by his mother's behavior?" She forgave his desire to excise the part of him that was her and human. She forgave his assumption that she would always be there when he had need of her (because she always had been) though the reverse did not hold true in the end. He cannot change that. In his daily meditation he has begun to incorporate a practice of self-forgiveness in her honor. It is an ongoing process. Only moderately successful.
T'Lingshar University, where cousins T'Lie and T'Vria matriculated, had been (to Uhura's quiet delight) the Vulcan version of a liberal arts college. Her first impulse was to locate Spock and tease him mercilessly. Did T'Lingshar U. students congregate in arty little teahouses, discussing interplanetary economics? Did they earnestly debate the pros and cons of logical extremism, decry the performative activism of certain politicians, dip their toes into the forbidden tenets of the V'tosh ka'tur? Were there poetry readings? Open mics? Did they hand out fliers on the quad for their boyfriend's retro-metal lyre band?
That impulse died as quickly as it came, her delight relegated to a growing pile of losses he would have to mourn.
Vulcans were not, by any stretch of imagination, chatty people. Still, it was notable that not one of them asked her about Vulcan, the planet, their home. This suggested that they knew, and it was a reality they either didn't want confirmed or didn't want to confront just yet. She was embarrassingly grateful for that. But there were degrees of conveyance that went beyond a general perception of taciturn, reserved people who stood in judgment of everyone else and found all those "not-Vulcan" wanting. Within the security of community and family, individual Vulcans were as varied in personality as any other race of beings. And some were surprisingly talkative.
T'Vria proved by far to be the most effusive as she absently bounced and patted the baby slung across her chest. Her olive skin was scattered with darker olive freckles, her irises were an unusual bronze-y green, and the dimples at the corners of her mouth made it appear she smiled frequently when in fact she smiled not at all. She peppered Uhura for news about the latest holovids, musicians she used to follow, and fashion trends on trendy worlds – not things Uhura expected a Vulcan to be particularly interested in (from her admittedly limited sample size), and not subjects she kept current with herself. If this lack of knowledge disappointed T'Vria, she was politely Vulcan in not showing it.
T'Lie was the taller of the two, her blue-black hair arranged in messy horn shaped buns. She wore an expression of bland hauteur and somehow managed to look better in her prison sweats than anyone else. Her relief that they'd all soon be "leaving this pekhshi" was expressed with an air of exquisite boredom. Unlike her cousin, T'Lie was presently unencumbered by an infant and intended to keep it that way. She'd pulled Uhura aside early on to ask how fast she could obtain an abortifacient. Three other women, T'Maru, Prisu, and Vareshi, approached her separately with the same question. She told them all the same thing – that they would be medically assessed once on board the Enterprise and if pregnant they'd be consulted on how they wanted to proceed. "It's entirely up to you," she assured them.
Prisu was the only one not visibly eased by that assurance. "No one can deny our wishes in the matter?"
The rights of an individual to body autonomy was in the UFP charter, so technically, no. But the T'Sai Suk's crew were a Sinti offshoot of Clan Trazhu. Maybe there were ethnic cultural prohibitions of which Uhura was not aware. Maybe she shouldn't make promises she personally couldn't assure.
Still, Vulcan had been a founding member of the UFP and signed off on all articles of the charter ages ago. Why had the other three women been so circumspect in asking her? She'd been uncomfortable with what their reticence implied. Spock could shed some light about it when she saw him. If she was speaking to him again. Abortion wasn't a subject that had come up in their relationship so far, not even generally. They were both obsessively responsible, and besides, she was only in year two of her ten-year career plan.
The third and last shuttle whipped up dust clouds as it landed. Squinting against the grit, she pushed back the errant strands of hair blowing around her face. A useless effort. In the courtyard area of the compound, Spock's people scurried around with tricorders scanning for transient evidence, any information held in buffers, programs that they could not risk uploading, and tagging whatever physical evidence they wanted the Ops people to gather into a pile to beam up all at once – computers, tracking systems, communications consoles, monitors, cameras and recording devices, medical equipment, etc.
She was surprised to see the two women from the tactical team were still on the planet, let alone walking her direction with their helmets under their arms. The shorter of the two waited until the shuttle finished powering down before introductions. "Lt Uhura. I'm PO Haloke Hohepa. This is PO Lisette Murad. We're supposed to return to the ship with you on the Einstein if there's room."
"Great. Welcome to the shuttle for unencumbered women." Both looked at her with carefully neutral expressions, encumbered as they were by their EV suits, equipment packs, small phaser rifles and helmets in hand. Uhura realized the "unencumbered" label needed context and that context probably needed to stay in her head. "Where's the rest of your team?"
Murad's lips tightened. Hohepa gave a twisted grin. "Yeah. It's just Ch'zaasran and us left." Uhura hadn't realized Ch'zaasran was still up in the crow's nest. "The other boys got to beam up twenty minutes ago."
"Seriously? Why'd you get stuck with the slow trip?"
"Chief's trying to keep his mission energy expenditures under budget. Or something. And somebody up top said there'd be room on this shuttle. And he's the boss. What're ya gonna do?"
"Are we waiting on Ch'zaasran then?"
Murad shrugged.
The Vulcan women observed this exchange with discreet interest. Although Prisu was already on the Enterprise and likely settled into a room by now, the number of her fellow unencumbered hopefuls had gained additional members – a woman closer to Perren's age called Sanvi, and T'Izhlen who seemed to be in denial about just how pregnant she was.
The shuttle hatch door opened, and the short ramp slid to the ground. Lt. Val Kochulaev stepped out and waved at her, "Hey girl!"
Uhura raised her hand to wave back but let out a startled curse instead when an energy burst cut through the darkness above their heads. Ch'zaasran had fired his phaser at something on the far side of the shuttle and from his triumphant whoop he must have hit it too. She whirled around to see Murad and Hohepa now flanking the group of Vulcan women with their rifles aimed into the inky black. Ch'zaasran yelled down, "Board quick. We need to raise the perimeter fence asap."
Nurse Bast drew a blanket up to Perren's chin and tucked it in, covering the restraints, the padded mittens on her hands, and her now bare feet. Spock went to fetch Tes. He would allow her to see that her mother was being well cared for, but that was all. Bast had gently tried to discourage even that much.
As he walked past a darkened room, motion detectors raised the lights. Inside, a woman sitting cross-legged on a bio-bed winced at the sudden brightness. Her short brown hair was flattened on one side, and there was a slight indention on her right cheek which suggested she'd been lying down until a few moments ago. She panicked at the sight of him, but he'd already depressed the emergency call signal and requested security before she could scramble off the table. Now she stood, her breath hard and fast, staring him with her hands clenched at her sides. A nurse came running and skidded to a stop in alarm at his presence.
"Who is this?" he demanded.
"We don't have a name, sir. She was beamed directly to sickbay from the planet. Non-physical trauma. We're still waiting for the psych-eval. She hasn't spoken since she got here."
"Perhaps because she does not speak Standard," he said, his gaze hard. A security officer rushed into the narrow corridor and Spock held up his hand. Wait.
The nurse looked uncomfortable. "Well, none of us speak Vulcan, sir—"
"Identify yourself," he said in Romulan.
The woman opened her mouth, then shook her head in a manner that could be interpreted as either refusal or incomprehension.
"That's Dr. Mas," Tes offered, her bright voice startling him. She'd appeared from around a corner, blocked from coming closer by the security person. At the sight of the girl, the Romulan woman drew a breath, her nostrils flaring, and her mouth pursed in a combination of anxiety and irritation.
"You were told to wait until I came for you," Spock said, his tone sharper than he intended.
Tes gulped, squeaked out, "You said you would return for me once Mother was comfortable."
"That you should wait until I did so was implied." Whatever rejoinder she intended was stopped by a finger thrust in the air. "No. Return to where you were and wait."
Tes spun on her heel and stomped back where she came from.
"That child has always needed a firm hand," the Romulan woman said, her smile tentative. He was the only other person who knew what she was saying.
"Identify yourself," he repeated.
"Hannam ir'Thieurull t'Mas. Doctor of Obstetrics."
Chekov made a weird little meep sound and leaned sideways to glance at helm controls. Sulu grunted, "Yeah, I see it."
Kirk straightened in his chair. "See what?"
"We have a blip, Captain. Just outside orbital range of the tenth planet in the system."
Kirk looked over at the science station where Spock was not, but Lt. Nez was. "Can you identify it a little better than that?"
"Um. It's definitely not nothing, sir. However, a targeted scan might draw attention to the fact that we are now aware of…whatever it is."
"Run a metaphasic sweep."
"Aye, sir." A few seconds passed, then, "There's a mass displacement at 200. An object approximately 44 meters long, maybe 9 meters in height. Span of 36 meters." Nez straightened. "Rough configuration suggests a Stalker, sir."
Kirk pulled at his lower lip. "A Romulan scout ship. Great."
"Yes, sir. Likely cloaked until a few minutes ago."
"Go to yellow alert. Inform our people on the surface they have five minutes to finish their business before we pull them out."
"Aye, sir."
"Sir?" Lt. M'Ress said from the Comms station. "The Einstein is already in transit. It's 267 kilometers out. ETA twenty-two minutes."
"Dammit," Kirk mutters. "I knew this was going too smoothly."