A/N: Please note, there is discussion of abortion in this chapter.

"I've been thinking about Uhura's birthday last month," Kirk said.

They were in the secure interview room in the brig. McCoy was on his way, and Lt Beghaii would soon arrive with Dr. Mas.

"That seems a curious memory to recall at this moment," Spock said, not looking up from his PADD.

"You gave her a bottle of hot sauce. I thought it was weird."

"Technically, a representational bottle. A crop blight caused production of the brand to cease. I located an entire case and procured it for her. It is her favorite hot sauce."

"Yeah, I know that now. But the look on her face when she opened that box…" A fancy box that looked like it had fancy perfume inside. "I remember thinking, Spock, buddy, pal, you really screwed this one up. And then all of the sudden she's hugging the bejeezus out of that box, squealing, 'Oh my god, I love you so much!'"

His impersonation of Uhura's voice (along with some girly hand-fluttering she definitely had not done) left much to be desired if Spock's expression were any indication. But that blurted declaration had seemed so huge, a confession of love in front of a bunch of people who probably didn't even know the two of them were together.

"I remember the whole room going dead silent, like oh no, oh shit, what's the Vulcan gonna do, how's he gonna crush her soul and step on her heart in front of everyone?"

Spock looked vaguely affronted. But as the images bloomed anew in Kirk's mind, he started to giggle dignity be damned. "You looked around at all of us like we were just… so so stupid." Giggles devolved into breathless laughter. "And you said–you said– " He could barely get the words out now – "oh my god, you said, 'she's talking about the hot sauce.' And she was!"

"That is not an exact quote," Spock informed him, which only made Kirk howl louder.

"She's cradling this bottle of Pili Pili Moto like a precious little baby and you're looking around like, 'What?' It was so goddamned funny! The two of you – tag team comedy gold!"

"Our behavior was not premeditated in any way." Spock seemed surprisingly chill considering his captain could barely breathe and there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

After a few moments Kirk managed to regain a modicum of control. He dragged his hands across his mirth besmeared face. "Anyway, that was the night, all of us together, that's when I knew, this was the crew I wanted with me on a five-year mission. You guys. All of you. If we were ever so lucky to get one."

Spock was contemplative for a moment. "And you still feel this way after being reamed by Admiral Pike?"

Kirk bit down on another fit of giggles. Spock's conscious echoing of a vulgarity was so adorable, he just wanted to smoosh his too-serious face. Or put him in a head lock and give him noogies.

"You're the one who has to write the report." It wasn't much of a hardship, he knew. Spock liked writing reports. "But, to answer your question, yes. I still feel that way. Now more than ever. This mission proved it."

When the elder Spock said they were destined to be friends, as close as brothers, it seemed such bullshit. Naïve and manipulative and ridiculous all at once. He could not have imagined a night like Uhura's birthday party, or the depth of his regard for the man before him and this radiating warmth that suffused his soul.

Still, he could not resist one last bit of mischief.

"There was something else I realized at Uhura's birthday party."

"Indeed?"

"I remember looking at the two of you and realizing, man, that guy is gonna have so much sex tonight."

Spock suddenly turned his attention to needless re-stacking of PADDs on the table.

"You did, didn't you? Have lots and lots of sex?"

Silence.

"I mean, if you didn't then I'm gonna have a word with her."

Spock's brows disappeared into his hairline. "You will not."

"Can't even share a tiny detail?"

"What tiny detail would compel you to never ask about it again?"

"Ooh. Have to give that some consideration." The door clicked and whooshed open. Lt. Beghaii walked in with Dr. Mas in tow. "I'll get back to you on that."

McCoy arrived seconds later.

The day before, Lt. Beghaii reminded the captain that it might be better to allow Starfleet Intelligence to handle all the prisoner interrogations. Commander Spock agreed.

"We're not interrogating," the captain said. "We're interviewing."

She had deep reservations about the efficacy of either given their limited resources and the possible legal ramifications. The Enterprise should have had a JAG officer with couple of staff, along with an interstellar affairs officer that specialized in diplomacy and Federation law. But as the ship was on a sixth-month assignment intended to work out the kinks of both vessel and painfully young command crew, they had neither. As a security specialist, she navigated a nebulous legal area regarding the detention and interrogation of undeclared enemy actors.

She'd also suggested interviewing the Romulan woman in one of the smaller conference rooms, those designed for informal meetings with dignitaries and diplomats. "It will be easier to establish a rapport if there is at least an implied level of mutual respect. We're likely to get better intelligence out of it."

"We tried that already," Kirk said abruptly. She'd read the transcript of that interview and had a different view. Instead, he insisted on a designated room in security detention the bare functionality of which was intended to cause unease in anyone forced to sit and wait for an interrogator to make an appearance. "The more pressure we can apply now, the better our chances of finding those babies and getting them back."

Reasoning predicated on improbable outcomes.

Recovering the children taken as infants was unlikely, no matter what Hannam Mas knew or might be willing to tell them. If those infants had survived, they'd have spent their formative years as Romulans, thoroughly indoctrinated by Romulans. Commander Spock tried to temper expectations.

"Captain, you do understand many of those infants are likely children of an age now, some perhaps as old as eleven."

"Old enough to be given as gifts in return for political favors I imagine, don't you?" There was no arguing with him after that.

Which means that this afternoon Dr. Mas sits at a table, breaking a protein bar she'd been given into increasingly smaller pieces without putting any of it into her mouth. She appears genuinely despondent, but neither Commander Spock nor Captain Kirk are inclined to give her mood much credence.

The restraint-monitor on her wrist makes note of any spikes in her vitals and transmits those to the stenovid equipment discreetly collecting data and spitting out analyses to Beghaii's PADD.

Kirk remains standing, arms folded tight over his chest, a posture that only unlocks when he raises an arm to chew a thumbnail. Spock is at the end of the table nearest the door, his face a mask of calm. Dr. McCoy scowls from a chair against the wall.

"This is a lovely room for torture," Mas says, not glancing up.

"Isn't it?" Kirk says cheerfully. Spock shoots him a look.

After covering the preliminaries, the first substantive questions are about the infants removed from Hellguard. When were they collected, by what means, how often, and why?

"They were collected as a cohort by medical transport, usually around the time they cut their first teeth. From my observations, they were handled with all due care. We are not all monsters, after all. I understood they were to be adopted into good households. But my speculations as to the purpose would be no more reliable than yours. I can tell you however, that the Matron ship scheduled to retrieve the latest group was long overdue. Our supply transports were also late by several weeks. Commander Kaol was anxious about this. You should ask him."

Beghaii exchanges looks with the senior officers. It seems more and more plausible that the destruction of the Vulcan home world had, in fact, rendered the long-term goals of the program (whatever its true purpose) useless.

Dr. Mas also confirms that the first group of women in her care were from the SS Chibuzo. "The last of those took her own life three years ago. She was called T'Aimnu." Her gaze turns inward for a moment. "Tough, that one. Hardened. Or perhaps only brittle at the end. Her death was the reason they went looking for others."

"The women from the mining consortium?"

"Yes."

Beghaii ticks off a list. "So that's the SS Chibuzo, the T'Sai Suk, the Valencia, and the mining consortium. Were you aware of any other Vulcan women captured and confined to the outpost on Hellguard?"

"I was brought on twelve years ago. If there were others before the Chibuzo I never saw them."

"You say you were 'brought on.' Did you volunteer?"

"After a fashion. My options for refusal were limited."

"Why is that?"

She breaks one of the small pieces of the protein bar into even smaller pieces. "Are you familiar with the Tal Shiar?" At the ripple of awareness through the room, she grunts a laugh. "Then you know why."

Beghaii's gaze flicks to the captain. This supports their suspicions. Romulan secret intelligence were likely the originators and facilitators of the breeding program on Hellguard.

"Well, we can only assume to know why in your case, Dr. Mas. The Tal Shiar utilizes any number of methods to motivate reluctant volunteers. Threats to family members. The exposure of secrets. Foolish mistakes made in the past…"

Mas brushes crumbs from her hands, a forceful clapping motion, leaving a scattered trail of dust across the table. She quickly wipes the remainder onto the knees of her pants.

"I was in prison."

"Something to do with the malpractice of medicine?" McCoy intones from the corner.

Her expression turns from contrite to hostile in an instant. "A Vulcan woman just died in your care!"

McCoy's eyes narrow. "A woman died, yes. I'm wondering how the hell you even know about it."

Kirk throws his security chief a pointed look. "I'd like to know that too."

Beghaii is already sending out queries. "Yessir."

Spock's impassive voice cuts through the tension. "The woman was not Talu, Dr. Mas. If someone implied it, they were either mistaken or intended to cause you distress."

The Romulan woman deflates, presses shaking fingers into the skin beneath her eyes. "Will she live, then?"

Grudgingly, McCoy acknowledges she will. "Indicators are favorable."

Beghaii glances up from her PADD. "Apparently the security detail was asked by a Vulcan woman to inform Dr. Mas of the death of one of her patients – neglecting to mention the patient's name."

"It was Prisu come to spit on me. Opted for another way when they would not allow her inside."

"I doubt her first inclination was to expectorate," Spock informs her coolly. "She would not have wasted the water on you."

Before his fellow officers have time to marvel at this quiet smack-down, he's moved on. "We have been told that each group of twelve men was cycled out after 180 days. What was the purpose of this practice?"

"That should be obvious to a brilliant man such as yourself." Her mild mockery dissolves under his unblinking scrutiny. "No man could lay claim to a child he would never see born."

Beghaii shifts in her seat, frowning. "Why would that matter if the men were killed after they'd served their time?"

"Killed? Who told you they were killed? I was not aware of this."

"We have at least one detainee who claims to be scheduled for execution upon his return to Romulus," Kirk says. "And you yourself told us that the– that those four girls were fathered by the illegitimate son of the Praetor's cousin. Why would he be there if not as a political prisoner?"

"I don't know. It was some scheme of Kaol's. Most of the men were conscripts from the colonies, or soldiers who'd committed some infraction. They were genetically screened for suitability, but I was never informed of the specific criteria considered." She blew out a sigh of exasperation "I rarely interacted with the men, save to treat injuries resulting from their own foolishness. These are questions only Kaol can answer. Why not ask him?"

"We're asking you."

Hannam Mas blinks slowly, then sits back in her chair, legs splayed, arm dangling in a show of confident ease. She looks from one to the other, shakes her head with a rueful smile. "The Commander kept me in the dark about so many things. You'd do better to interrogate him. He is a far better resource than I."

In that moment Beghaii knows they're done. Dr. Mas has figured out they can't ask Kaol. She might not know why, or for how long, but she knows. Both Spock and Kirk have come to the same conclusion.

After that, nearly every query is responded to with some variation of – "Ask Commander Kaol."

The Romulan prisoners in the brig had declined to give their names. They'd been assigned intake numbers when they were processed, but Beghaii was uncomfortable leaving it at that. She decided to use a little creative persuasion to get help from the young asylum seeker.

But the kid was a nervous wreck, half-regret, half despair. His reason for leaping into the unknown (a young woman named T'Maru) had abandoned him to his fate – or so it seemed to him after the first two days. Beghaii suggested that if he would be willing to provide names and personal information about his fellow conscripts, she would arrange for him to be in the galley mess when the Vulcan women took their evening meal. She could not assure T'Maru would be present, but he would at least be able to ask about her.

He didn't exactly leap at the chance. "If I do this, I can never call myself Rihanssu again, can I?"

Oh honey. No. I don't think you can.

Jiekhus tr'Sarine would need to become something else. Even if T'Maru reciprocated his feelings (a big if), his acceptance within Vulcan society was doubtful. Where was he going to live? Work? Where would he be welcome? She feared his most likely future was deep in the bowels of Section 31.

He was a good-looking boy with a slightly weak chin, a shy crooked smile and warm hazel eyes that met her own without hesitation. Earnest eyes. Incautious. Too open. And yet he'd spent nearly six months fooling his fellow conscripts into believing he was just like them.

Yup. Unless something else could be arranged, it was only a matter of time before secret-intelligence got their claws into him.

Now he paused uncertainly just inside the broad archway leading to the mess hall. His handler, Mr. Belanger followed slightly behind and to Jiekh's left. He gave him a nudge forward. Beghaii, on his right, nodded toward the group of five Vulcans occupying a table near the back with Lt Uhura and Yeoman Zhu. He was perfectly aware of them, of course. If anything, he was hyper-aware. But her gesture acknowledged that she'd kept her part of the bargain.

"Belanger's going to hang back, let you socialize for a while," she told him. "When you're ready to leave, he'll escort you to your cabin."

"But what if—?" He cut the question off, painfully embarrassed by his hopes for an evening he hadn't even begun.

Across the room the Vulcan women had noticed him. One of them rose and began to make her way towards him.

Aida Beghaii patted his arm. "Ask her to recommend a Vulcan dish."

It is rare for Spock to fall asleep immediately after coitus (only 12 out of 388 times to date), but of those times, five had been disrupted by variations of Nyota's current utterance "we need to talk" – and four of those had ended in an argument.

He opens an eye with an understandable level of trepidation and cautiously queries, "About?"

"Abortion."

Thoroughly awake now he surges upright, moves the pillow, shifts his back until it's flat against the headboard, aiming for rigid self-containment while his thoughts careen through every permutation of every consequence of every possible outcome and potential future from this point forward.

"Oh my god. Your face." She's not laughing outright, but her mirth is evident in the tone of her voice. "Holster the eyebrows, babe. I'm not pregnant."

He does not bother to hide the irritation evident in the tone of his voice. "Are you using the word 'abortion' in another context?"

She's lying on her right side facing him, elbow bent, cheek propped in her cupped palm. A wry grin gives way to awkwardness. "No."

"Then why the urgency to discuss terminating a pregnancy? Your tone indicated the need for an immediate discussion."

Something in his countenance has her scrambling across his body and out of the bed, heedless of the placement of her knees and elbows. Her words are contrite, but her tone is anything but. "Sorry. Sorry. Never mind. It's not important. Go back to sleep."

Go back to sleep? She brought up abortion. How is that not important? Why does she consistently resort to this behavior? Demand, then apologize? Defer then react with rashness and rude illogic? He merely asked for clarification—

Oh. This is precursor to an argument. If he engages now, they will find themselves entangled in heated semantics, unable to approach the crux of the matter (whatever it is) for the duration. He must change the parameters of the interaction.

He catches her wrist as she's moving away. "Nyota."

"I'm sorry. Forget about it—"

"Nyota." He shakes her arm gently. "Tell me what troubles you."

"I have to pee."

He gives her the look she taught him – "whatever you are attempting to sell I am not purchasing." After a moment she sighs and sits on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

"Fine. It's about some of the Vulcan women."

"They have inquired about terminating pregnancies, I presume."

"Pretty sure they've already done it or started the process. At least two of them. One turned out not to be pregnant. I'm not sure about the other one."

He suppresses the urge to prompt. A restraint she takes as reticence.

"Do you have an opinion about it?"

"It is none of my business."

"That's what I told them. Why are they so worried about what you'll think?"

"Perhaps you apply a human interpretation to your observations?"

"No. See. You didn't deny the possibility. Also, framing your response as a question means you're being evasive."

"You implied the women were able to have the procedure."

"Medication in this case." She turns her torso to face him, drawing her knee up so her thigh rests along the edge of the bed. "And you didn't deny being evasive."

Her expression is troubled, earnest, and he is certainly paying attention, but the position of her legs – one on the bed, one not – allows the scent of her sex to waft his direction. He inhales discreetly. He does not close his eyes because that would be too obvious.

"Here's the unsettling part," she continues. "When they realized that you and I work closely together, some of them seemed concerned you'd find out somehow. That I might let something slip. About them getting abortions."

"In all fairness that is precisely what you are doing at this moment."

Predictably, Nyota glosses over his statement with a dismissive exhalation and wave of her fingers. "Why would that concern them in the first place? It's not like you have parental rights or anything. They don't even know you. You certainly have no authority to tell them they can't. So, I'm figuring they fear, sorry, have misgivings about your response or judgment regarding abortion."

"I have yet to form an opinion on the issue." His enunciation is slipping, but he thinks she hasn't noticed. The urge to sleep is almost profound.

"I think you represent broader public opinion to them. From … before."

Before. "The need for such a practice was – is considered unnecessary in Vulcan society."

"Wow. It's great you Vulcans have solved all the problems that ever made it necessary in the first place."

Or the urge to sleep may simply be avoidance.

He opens his eyes to see her scowling at him with her arms crossed and shuts his eyes immediately.

He's not forgotten they're having this discussion while naked, but seeing her breasts pressed together and perched on her forearms is a potent reminder of what they'd been doing that had made him so pleasantly sleepy before this less pleasant topic disrupted his contentment.

Again, he opens his eyes, but keeps them carefully averted, offering instead, the facts. "Even in modern human societies abortion is rare. Contraceptive methods are highly effective and the chances of an unintended pregnancy exceedingly low. Any serious birth defects, which in the past might have necessitated termination, are now easily eliminated through gene manipulation prior to conception or treated shortly after, in utero. Likewise, instances in which the continuation of pregnancy risks a woman's life are virtually non-existent."

"But you just used human models to suggest the same models are applicable to Vulcan views on the subject – probably so you wouldn't have to tell me what those views actually are. I'm wise to your ways, mister."

He trails his hand along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

"Stop. Stop it." Slapping the hand away, she tries to smooth down a non-existent skirt before catching herself. She draws herself up regally, as if she meant to smooth her a non-existent skirt all along. "I can't imagine Vulcans doling out contraceptives to teenagers, but I can imagine those teenagers maybe getting carried away, maybe having intercourse without protection. Pregnancy occurs. What happens in that case?"

"As I have told you, Vulcans are often pair-bonded as children. As we develop, meditation techniques sublimate those specific urges. Older youth are closely chaperoned, and you may have noticed our clothing is designed to cover every possible glimpse of temptation save the mind. Opportunities to get 'carried away' are few and far between."

"Oh. Well, that explains something, at least," she says, ducking her head with a soft laugh. When she meets his questioning gaze, her expression is suspiciously gleeful. "You might want to watch out for T'Vria. I mentioned you were the one who recognized the lines from the play. She's enthusiastic to discuss your translation of 'The Sundered Women of Irik-Ahkhan.'"

"I sometimes forget your penchant for cruelty." He leans toward her and draws her in for a kiss. This goes on for some time until she recognizes it for a distraction and pulls away, returning to the prior thread of the conversation.

"So, accidental teenage pregnancy never happens. Is that what you're telling me?"

"I am not telling you that. But I can assure you no young woman would ever be left to raise a child alone and unassisted."

He thinks of Jim Kirk. Perhaps his mother had few options available to her. It would explain unreliable caretakers and general neglect through her absence due to deployments.

"She'd be forced to have the baby then?"

"No. Of course not. Why must you insist on imposing human social constructs to this specific issue? There is no force involved. Your hypothetical young woman might choose to give birth and then entrust the child's entire upbringing to extended family members. To raise a child to principled adulthood can only bring honor to the entire clan. If she chooses to raise the child herself, she will suffer no detriment to her educational pursuits or career ambitions. There are no socioeconomic reasons for a woman to seek an abortion. The state sees to her welfare with or without the support of her relatives because it is good for society as a whole." And now the state is all. Every child is family to every Vulcan left alive.

"But what about rape?"

"The same applies. You may have observed that no rancor has been displayed towards the children born of rape. I would venture to assert it is not felt."

"After the fact, Spock. You can't say they wouldn't have chosen to terminate given the option."

"No. But we were initially speaking of a willing and hypothetical teenager. Had she chosen abortion I believe it would have been granted. I know other species consider us to be … socially conservative. But we are not monsters."

Hannam Mas had asserted the same thing. Odd.

"I don't know. I've heard some pretty wild stories about Vulcan men who go crazy with lust and jump the bones of the first female they see."

The tone in her voice indicates she finds the idea implausible. Thankfully. He does not wish to have that conversation. "You are much too sensible to give credence to salacious rumors."

"True. If I'd paid attention to half the ridiculous rumors about weird Vulcan sex kinks, I would have run screaming the first time you offered to treat me to lunch."

"I am grateful you did not run from me screaming. Although I can only speculate as to the nature of these weird 'kinks.'"

He coaxes her onto his lap, straddling him, her palms flat on his chest, pulled back a little, studying his face, looking for something. He wants to touch her mind, but brushes his tongue along her suprasternal notch instead, pulls his fingers through the curtain of her hair, down to the sacral dimple, her teeth on his earlobe, her hand in the place between them where they fit together, rock together, slick and tight, closer, closer, closer, not an atom between us she whispers, though it is nonsensical, impossible, illogical.

Nevertheless for her, he tries.