This chapter runs a little long at 13,000 words, just a warning. I'm anxious to know your thoughts.
10.
Lunar Phases, or,
To Everything a Season
Spock's hold on Nyota is bruisingly tight.
She groans at the swell of contusions purpling her ribs, an unbroken crescent of traumatised skin.
"Spockam?" Nyota says, pushing against Spock's arms. His grip does not yield. He's never held onto her this tightly before.
"Spockham?"
Nyota kisses his knuckles, his forearms, his elbows. The muscles give way a fraction but it's not enough. Only when Nyota scrapes her teeth over the veins of his wrist does his body slacken truly. He growls lowly in his sleep, relaxes, loosening enough so that Nyota can wiggle from his grasp.
Spock reaches out to grab Nyota once she's up, fingers sliding into the waistband of her sleep shorts, snatching the fabric, pulling her back toward the sofa. She falls into his embrace, her back against his front on the couch. He presses his erection into her, nips her shoulder and neck through the cotton of her shirt. "You would leave me in such a state, Nyota?" he asks.
She shivers and pushes back into him.
Spock's fingers find hers, clutch. The surface layer of his thoughts enter into her mind through her fingertips, images of herself pulled from his memories: the darkness of her skin, a result of New Vulcan's unrelenting sun, the fullness of her breasts, the sway of her hips
His memories warp into fantasy: an image of Nyota in a t-shirt and knickers reaching up into the kitchen cabinet, her shirt riding up. Spock comes up from behind, reaches around to rub her through her briefs until she's moaning and wet, widening her stance. He pulls her underwear to the side and enters her, spilling himself into her ten minutes later once she's come. Flips her around so they're facing each other. Lifts her up onto the kitchen counter and has her again.
The image abruptly cuts out, his mind black again.
Nyota turns around on the sofa, sees Spock's open eyes, his breaths coming fast. "Apologies," he says. "It was not my intention for you to see that."
"No, it was really nice," says Nyota, leaning up to kiss his chin. He pulls away.
"It was not nice," Spock says.
She nods and stands up quickly. "Okay. Whatever you say. Why don't you go back to sleep? I'm just going to go use the bathroom."
It's a lie. She's up now, even if she's only gotten two hours of sleep.
"You are coming right back?" Spock asks.
"Go back to sleep," she says. It's a trick she's learned from him, how to not answer questions.
He nods and rests his cheek on the throw pillow. He's so fucking spent, because after a few seconds, his breaths are heavy and deep, and she knows he's back asleep.
A barely-touched cup of tea sits on the kitchen counter, cold, and she heats it up. Once steam begins to rise, she refills her cup, adds a generous helping of cactus leaf syrup and takes a sip.
The final product is far from the best tea she's ever tasted, but it eases the rawness in her trachea. Last night's throat spasms did a number on her respiratory tract. She'll have to visit Healer T'Suri, who's convinced that the second-hand asthma attacks have given Nyota a type of chronic bronchitis. Nyota hasn't told Spock yet.
Time for a run. Nyota grabs a muddy pair of shoes and slides them on over bare feet. She searches through the wicker basket looking for it, the t-shirt, one that Gaila gave her many moons ago, before her death. She puts it on as well as a clean pair of spandex shorts and tip-toes through the corridors not wishing to disturb Spock.
The twins are awake. Lantern light shines beneath the crack of their door, and Selik is discussing her plans to re-attempt blueprints for a weather machine. Nyota presses her ear to the door with a grin and listens. Last night had been harrowing for the both the girls, yet here they were chatting as if all that occurred was a rain storm, and now that the thunder had passed, they could speak to each other in a more dignified volume.
The weather machine. T'Pau assures Nyota that it is perfectly normal for Vulcan children as old as and much older than Selik to exhibit strong convictions about their imaginary worlds. Upon first encountering it, Nyota thought her daughter's fantastical belief that she would inherit Storm's powers would make her stand out among perfectly logical V'Tosh, but it didn't. Such fanciful whims were often encouraged in youth, as thought to be the window to a love of discovery and a drive for societal change. Selik's weather machine is proof of the phenomenon. She'd had the idea listening to an old radio episode of Superman. The villain, Lois Lane's Uncle Morton, invents a miraculous device, allowing him to change the weather with the flip of a switch.
It had led Selik to design a course for herself at her school in the fields of meteorology, hydrology, atmospheric chemistry and physics, biogeochemistry, the end of phase one culminating in a practicum project.
Nyota wishes to forget the look on Spock's face when Selik had requested Nyota to ask Maresh if he would be her mentor on the assignment. All of their hands-on projects required an adult guide, leader, or mentor.
Why can't your samekh do it, like he usually does? Nyota had asked, hoping to undo some of Spock's pain, even though she knew that pain could never be undone.
Because I wish for Maresh to do it. He is knowledgeable about these matters. He supports my interests. It is logical.
With much effort, Nyota pulls away from her daughters' bedroom door and stops eavesdropping, heads outside so she can start her run. It's not the best idea given how sore her throat still feels, but she's like a leopard in that way. Her spots are here to stay; she will always be the girl who runs.
Above her, there are stars for days. Like its predecessor, New Vulcan has no moon, but if it had one, it'd be a waxing crescent tonight. Thin, tiny, a fraction of its entire self, barely there. But on the upswing and growing. It was hard to imagine, but soon it would be whole again.
Nyota takes off without bothering to warm up first. It's only about 8 kilometres to the southeast foothills, and she wants to get there and back before the dawn.
As she runs, she passes the greenhouse Spock is building for Selik, like Storm's. He hasn't had much time to put a lot of work into lately, but it's gorgeous. Big. The second floor has a glass-dome ceiling, meant to be an observatory for Amayel.
Next she runs past an altar, built by Amayel and Spock together to the old Vulcan goddess T'Vet. Amayel is obsessed with history, with origins, with place. She was born years after Va'Pak, but the loss is heavy in the little girl's mind.
Nyota waits for her mind to clear, but it never does.
She thinks of Maresh. She thinks of what Spock said last night before they realised Selik had run away. He'd asked her if she thought Maresh would allow Selik to go on her kahs-wan, and commented on how 'glowing' Nyota was when she spoke of him.
He couldn't be more wrong. Maresh doesn't make Nyota glow. He makes her uncomfortable. It's been like that for months now, and though she puts on a brave face for the sake of her career and her family's peace, she knows she won't be able to take much more.
When Nyota hits her turn-around point, she feels a piece of her husband's mind calling to her. It throbs like the early stages of a migraine.
He's awake now. He knows she's gone. He sees that her running shoes are missing.
As her feet kick up dust with each stride, Nyota lets Spock know through the bond that she's all right. She'll be back soon. Despite the reassurances, he continues to beckon her back. When she finally does arrive, out of breath, sticky—her clothes completely sodden with sweat—he's waiting for her by the back door.
"I know," she says, walking around him, brushing his side with her arm as she enters the house.
"What do you know?" he asks.
"What you're thinking. That you wish I hadn't gone running in my condition," says Nyota, grabbing the canteen of ice water on the mantle in the corridor. She screws off the cap and drinks so fast she gets nauseated. She still wants more. Spock hands her another portion.
"I was only thinking that I am relieved you have returned," he says.
"Thank you for the water," says Nyota.
"It is no concern." He's staring at her strangely. Nyota looks down. Sees that the dampness has made her white shirt transparent. It sticks tightly to her skin. She looks gross and unattractive, and the way his eyes move quickly away from her to focus on something else reveals his clear disgust.
"What time is it?" Nyota asks.
"It is 05:43," says Spock. "You should return to sleep."
She wants to protest, to stay up, cook breakfast, be productive, solve her marriage andMaresh and her life, figure out this motherhood thing, et cetera, et cetera, but the rush of serotonin from her run is waning. Adrenaline gone. All that's left is limbs that feel like bars of latinum.
"Aren't you coming to?" she says, when she heads to the bedroom, plops onto the mattress. She lies back.
"Our daughters are awake though they require more rest," says Spock. "I will return to you as soon as they are asleep again."
Nyota hoists herself up on her side and forearm, looks at him in the door frame. He is wearing loose-fitted meditation trousers. "Please don't be too hard on Selik," she says, regretting her words as soon as she says them. She picks up on a tinge of hurt through the bond, the most emotion she's felt from him in months, as distant as he's been.
"I wish only to assess her and Amayel's condition," he says.
She wants to say, I know. I'm sorry. She wants to say, You know I love you so, so much, right? Instead, what comes out is: "Okay. See you in a bit."
As soon as she covers herself with the sheet, exhaustion overwhelms her.
Last night had been a doozy.
Let it be known, there are few things more humiliating than crying in front of a Vulcan—and fewer still than crying in front of the Honoured Matriarch of the House of Surak.
So yesterday evening, Nyota didn't.
She'd listened quietly, calmly, and respectfully as T'Pau debriefed her.
She'd listened quietly, calmly, and respectfully as a still-sleeping Amayel lay in the arms of her great-grandmother, shrunken and frail and injured.
She listened quietly, calmly, and respectfully as her husband and Selik wandered God-knows-where in the desert, so far from her side.
Several attendants surrounded T'Pau. One of them attempted to help Nyota steady her breathing, but she didn't want to be touched right then. She declined his aid, just short of pushing him forcibly away from her. Instead, she got through the secondary breathing attack the way she always did: by remembering how much more painful and frightening the experience was for Selik.
"Let me hold her," Nyota had said—only half cognisant of the fact that she'd interrupted T'Pau in the midst of her discussing plans to make formal charges against the camp.
T'Pau did not admonish her for the interruption. She nodded and handed over Amayel's tiny form—heavier than a human child would be. A combination of New Vulcan's terrain and atmosphere, as well as Starfleet, had made Nyota strong. Virtually steel. The weight of her daughters never fazed her. There was no strain in her back and shoulders as she cradled her little one. "Hello, my little brave lion," she'd whispered in Swahili.
After she put Amayel to bed, she waited for Spock and Selik's return. She poured glasses of water. Heated plomik soup. Cut pieces of fruit. It was thoroughly un-Vulcan to play hostess to her house guests in such a way, but her hands needed something do and she did not think going out to the shed and tinkering with her devices would go over well.
So she made tea, then dropped the pot onto the floor and it shattered. She went to get the broom to sweep it up but T'Pau's attendants would not let her.
"You will sit down," said T'Pau.
It had been two hours before her daughter and husband returned, Selik in Spock's arms. The two attendants who found them, S'harien and Zhi'rev, could not disturb Spock in the midst of his healing trance, hence the amount of time it took before they could head back to the homestead.
"Is she okay? Is she okay?" Nyota asked, running toward the door.
Spock reached out his free arm to her, touched her hand with his, sending her a wave of his relief, a trickle of anxiety. She would be okay, which was slightly different than, she was okay.
Nyota has faced her fair share of troubles and near-death scares, but last night truly had truly shaken her.
She vaguely remembers collapsing on the couch, too afraid to let Spock ago, holding on to some irrational fear that he might leave her in the night and never return. Turns out he'd been holding on to her just as tightly.
"You should be sleeping," Spock says when he returns to the bedroom from looking in on the girls. Nyota's eyes come open, re-entering the present moment.
"I can't," she says.
"Will it disturb you if I play my ka'athyra?" he asks. "I wish to…settle myself," says Spock. It's vague. She doesn't know what the hell that means. She's lost her instinct for decoding the things he leaves unsaid.
"I would like that, actually," says Nyota. "Might help me sleep."
She lies bundled under the covers as he gets out his hard case from the closet, sets himself up in the chair at Nyota's dressing table. There's the gentle pluck of silk strings as he goes through scales, arpeggios, and other warm ups.
Ten minutes later, already half-dreaming, she hears the song—her song—the piece he wrote for her when they were still so brand-new to each other they had not yet memorised all the ways to make each other hurt. Back in those days when Nyota was still too shy to undress in front of him. She'd lower her head, feel heat rush her cheeks as he unbuttoned her blouse, his eyes never leaving hers as his fingers traced the skin of her stomach with satin-light touches.
The song is called, A Boy Young in Winters Journeys up the Mountain. It is based off of a traditional folk sang, rarely heard anymore, about a young man dying of a thirst in the desert. He sees a temple on the mountain peak and climbs toward it, so his body may rest in the house of the gods when he dies. He reaches the peak only to realise it's not a temple at all. A sorceress had played a trick on him. She collected souls there and fed off them.
Another young woman was trapped in the witch's house, and the two defeated the sorceress together, then lived out the rest of the days in the house.
It reminded Nyota of Hansel and Gretel with a splash of Snow White.
When Spock told her the story, he said he wasn't certain if Nyota was the young woman who helped the young man defeat the witch, or if she was the sorceress herself, enchanting him with her spell.
The familiar and meandering minor-key melody of the song fills the room, stunning in its compositional complexity. Nyota will never not be flattered that she inspired the piece.
She hasn't heard him play it in a very long time.
"That was beautiful, Spock," she says, throwing her legs onto the floor when he reaches the end.
He sets the lyre into its case. "I am, as you might say, 'rusty.'"
"Well, my faulty human ears couldn't detect any flaws."
"There is nothing faulty about you," he says, standing. He returns the case to its place in the closet. "How are you?"
"I'm fine," says Nyota, even though she knows that's an answer that will him a little bit crazy. What is it he's always telling her? Fine is variable, vague, imprecise, meaningless. Fine compared to what? Fine on what spectrum? What scale?
There are some parts of Spock she will always know like the back of her hand.
"Would it disturb you if I initiated a light meld with you so that I might assess your condition in more objective terms?" he asks.
She must pause too long before answering, because he turns and walks toward the bathroom.
"My apologies. That was an invasive request," he says.
Nyota joins him at the sink and hoists herself up onto the counter whilst he splashes cool water on his face from the clay bowl. He doesn't look at her as he carries out his ablutions, scrubbing soap onto his face. There's a trace amount of shadow covering his cheeks and chin.
"Spock," she says after he wrings out the cloth he'd been using. She grabs his wrist, her palm slipping slightly over the droplets of water still on his skin before gaining proper purchase. "Of course we can meld. Of fucking course. You never have to ask me that," she says. They haven't tip-toed around each other like this since before they first bonded.
"It would only be a light join," he says. "I do not wish to cause you undue mental strain."
"It wouldn't be a strain."
"You feel certain of this? It is just—" says Spock, stumbling over his words. "I must touch your mind to know that you are all right in order to regain a sense of equilibrium. I do not wish to disturb you, however."
His hands grip the rim of the porcelain basin, biceps trembling. He is barely holding it together. She wishes he could tell her what's worng.
Nyota reaches up to his face, still damp, one palm on each cheek. He still won't look at her. She rubs her thumbs over the rough stubble. "You are an agreeable disturbance, a'dun," she says.
"Am I?" he asks. His voice is somewhere between sad and accusatory. "I know that I have not been desirable company as of late."
"I just want to know what's wrong lately. Is it something about me? Something I'm doing?"
"It is not necessary to discuss this," he says—snaps. He's hurting and defensive, and Nyota chooses not to take it as a personal affront. "I must work through these deficiencies on my own through increased emotional self-discipline in meditation."
"Yeah, but you also have to talk to me. Me. Remember me? Your wife? Parted and never parted, and yet it's like we've been in different worlds lately. Is it me, Spock? You could tell me if it was. If that's what's wrong, okay, I can accept it, but—"
"I do not understand the query. Could you perhaps rephrase or narrow the scope of the question?" he asks
Nyota nods, takes a mental step back, and starts again. "Is it me?"
"Is 'what' you?" he asks. "To what 'it' do you refer?"
"Am I the one who's been causing your…whatever? Your upset?" Left unsaid: your distance, your inflexibility, your unkindness.
"In a fashion, you are the cause, though you are not responsible," he says.
It hurts to have verbal confirmation, as much as she's been expecting it.
"Could you be more specific?" she asks, bracing herself for whatever it is. He's leaving her. He's found someone else. He wants a Vulcan. She's too fragile.
"I have had some epiphanies," he answers, which is definitely not more specific.
"Epiphanies as in?"
"As in realisations that have substantially altered my worldview," says Spock.
"I know what an epiphany is. I'm asking what your epiphanies were."
Tight-lipped silence. Surprise, surprise.
"All right. Nevermind. I think T'Pau said she was coming over at 8:00 to, and I quote, 'restore balance.' I'm going to make breakfast and straighten up a bit before she arrives."
She's half out the bathroom before he calls her name.
"Nyota."
"What?"
"The meld."
"Right. Fine." She goes to sit on their bed, her hands resting in her lap.
He sits next to her on the bed, the mattress indenting next to her. "Please do not take my reticence for proof of anything other than my inability to convert emotional data into language," he says. He speaks to her softly but firmly, tone resolute. She can imagine the hard set of his jaw even as she refuses to look at him, her eyes on the floor.
"It's more than that, Spock. You're keeping something from me on purpose. Look, let's just get the meld over with," she says. Nyota never thought she'd speak so flippantly about one of the most intimate ways a couple can connect.
Spock grips her chin and turns her face toward him. "Look at me," he says. She lifts her gaze and meets his stare. "You are so beautiful to me, my Nyota. Always." He positions his fingers over her psi-points then enters her mind, and she doesn't know what she's expecting—but it's not what she gets.
Spock's mind-touch is always gentle, silky, restrained; his consciousness melting into hers so sweetly, then the slow unfurling of his emotions inside of her. But this right here is the eye of a star. It's not unpleasant, but it burns.
She tries to reach out to him, to connect, but he pulls away. Nyota doesn't chase him because there are some lines you never cross and one of those invading someone's mind. Spock is so close, as close as two lovers can be, but it still feels like there's a desert separating them. She wants to sink completely into him. She wants him to sink completely into her.
Then just like that she is cold and alone again.
"You require sustenance, water, and several herbal remedies that will treat the trace amount of infection gathering in your throat. I will prepare these things as well as breakfast and ready the house for T'Pau's arrival. Please, Nyota. Rest. I will take care of you."
She pulls her legs up so she's sitting crosslegged in the bed. "I don't need to be taken care of. I need you to talk to me. We can't keep going on like this. I can't keep going on like this. Last night our daughter disappeared and we didn't know until she was half way to the mountains. What if we hadn't realised in time?"
Spock takes a seat on the chair across from the bed. "What are you saying?" he asks.
"You know that I love you so, so much. You're a part of me, and so much of who I am is because of you," says Nyota. "But I can't keep this up. I'm so tired. These guessing games are exhausting. It's like I'm living with a stranger." Nyota meets his eyes, struggling to say this next part, the part she doesn't want to say at all but it's been nagging at her since before this morning, since before yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. "I think we both need some time, okay? To figure out where to go from here. I'm going to leave. For a few days. I'm overwhelmed. Do you understand?"
Spock is motionless across from her, his arms behind his back. "I understand."
Nyota slides her hands over the spandex of her running shorts, bites her lips, pinches her mouth to the side. "Okay then," she says, crossing the room toward the bureau. She removes shirts, underwear, leggings then sets them into a pile on the bed. A set of three uniforms hangs in the closet, and she takes all of them. Toiletries go into her travel case.
"Nyota," Spock says from behind her. She turns. He's standing in the door of the closet, eerily still.
"What?" says Nyota. If she weren't so tired, she'd have yelled it.
"Have you given yourself to another?" he asks, head slightly tilted. A stranger watching might think he'd asked her where his favourite tie was.
"After everything I just said, that's all you can ask me?" she says.
"It is a rather straightforward question. Is there someone else, Nyota?"
"I refuse to dignify that question with a response. You are—" she starts, then stops, deciding to pull her punch just a little, "You are really something else these days." She pulls out her large backpack and tosses it on the bed, filling it with various items.
"Your reluctance is all the answer I require," Spock says.
"My reluctance? How can you even say that with a straight face? Not even T'Pau could say something so ridiculous without cracking a smirk. You're the one who hasn't talked to me in forever. You created this gulf. Not me. The only time you talk to me is when you want to tell me how pissed you are because oh—I stupidly let Selik do this. Or oh, I really should not wear such and such out to the market; it's too inappropriate. Do you even respect me anymore?"
"You have never had anything less than my complete respect and admiration," says Spock. A touch of a tremor tinges his words.
Nyota shrugs her shoulders before taking a seat onto the mattress "You just accused me of cheating on you. How else am I supposed to interpret your behaviour when you won't tell me what's really going on?"
"I made a deduction, based on the following evidence. One: you requested a separation. Two: you are a desirable female. It is logical that others would want you, and given our relationship lately, it is logical that you would want another, as well. How is my conclusion about you disrespectful?"
"Well, how about this, Spock? Want to hear my evidence? Exhibit A: You're an asshole. Exhibit B: I can't take this anymore. I'm fucking gone. I'm sure you'll be glad to get rid of your lying, cheating wife."
His jaw tightens and his lips pinch.
"As you wish," he says.
And then it's—screw this. Screw him.
Nyota opens the side table drawer on Spock's side of the bed, pulls out a book of poetry, a stack of keepsakes and drawings done by Amayel, an expired Federation ID, an old postcard from Nyota when they were apart briefly when the twins were toddlers. At the bottom of the drawer is the letter from the Other Spock, from six months ago. She's known it was there since that night. She hasn't gone digging for it until now.
"Do not," he says.
Nyota removes the adhesive from the envelope, opens it, and takes out the ivory paper.
The writing is in Golic. Hand-crafted calligraphy. Her Spock's handwriting exactly. Exactly. She swallows as her eyes flash over the date, the address, the salutation.
"Nyota."
She starts to read.
Dear Spock,
It has been thirteen years, two months, two days, nine hours, seven minutes, and three seconds since our last encounter. In this time, I have been tempted to seek you out so that we might share a meal and converse on matters of fascination to us both, of which I am sure, given the circumstances, are many. I have resisted that urge until now.
I am aware that you have two daughters who are approaching their seventh year, a significant time in the life of a V'tosh child. It is my hope you do not consider it too much of an intrusion that I am frequently in touch with Sarek regarding their welfare. I find myself overwhelmingly invested in their well-being. They are, from what I have gleaned, intelligent, curious, kind, and compassionate children. Kirk informs me that they are already 'little heartbreakers.' This is of no surprise to me given who their mother is.
You will notice that this letter is meandering. Forgive my lapse in logic and decorum. It is difficult to supply energy to such tasks when you have reached the age I have.
I reach out to you through this outmoded form of communication because I wished you to have the proper time to consider my request without a sense of pressure to reply in a timely fashion, as I know you would feel to do with any sort of electronic medium.
I wish to see her, she who is your wife.
I need not talk to her, if you would not desire it. However, I would appreciate the opportunity to spend some time in her presence, in the same room, if only for one minute, or if you are amenable, for two.
I have been contemplating writing this letter for thirteen years, two months, two days, nine hours, and seven minutes.
Peace and Long Life,
Spock
"You would deny me my privacy so brazenly?" Spock asks.
"Why didn't you tell me about this?" says Nyota.
"As you will note, it is addressed to me and not you, and therefore is none of your concern."
"It's about me. Did you write back? What did you say?"
Why would such a benign request from the Other Spock cause such discord? Is there something more, something more he is not saying?
"I have corresponded with him," says Spock.
"And?" Nyota asks.
"It is private."
"Is he all right? Is he okay? It's strange that after all this time he would ask for this. Is he ill?"
Spock is enraged. She doesn't see it on her face, but the feeling is strong enough that she's cognisant of it through their link.
"Why are you so concerned about his well-being? Is it he who you plan to abscond with?"
Lord have mercy.
"Has he reached out to you personally? Have you been carrying on a correspondence without my knowledge? Have you mated with him who is not me? Have you shared his bed?"
"You're scaring me right now, Spock," she says, her hand firm on the strap of her backpack.
"Nyota, I am—I am sorry. Perhaps you are right that it is best that you go."
Nyota's intake of breath is sharp and painful. "Baby, just tell me what's wrong. Please, please. I'm begging you," she tries one last time. He is shaking.
"Go. I could not forgive myself were my words to turn on you again so callously and cruelly," he says.
Nyota quickly stuff the letter back into the envelope, grabs the backpack full of her things and hoists it on.
She goes to the twins' room. She lifts both of them up, with some struggle, into her arms, one on either side. They sleep through it.
Where are we going? asks Amayel in her dream state.
To great-grandmother's. Shhh. Everything's all right, Nyota says, though nothing is.
She puts the twins into the back of the flitter, straps them in. Selik whines. So does Amayel.
"Mama? Where are we going?" Selik asks, waking up.
"Just over to Great-Grandmother's."
"Are we spending the night? I did not pack anything."
"There's stuff for you there."
"When is Samekh coming? Or does he have to work today?"
"Samekh isn't coming."
"Is it because he is angry at me regarding my attempted kahs-wan? He wishes to keep his distance?" Selik asks.
"Please just be quiet for one second whilst Mama thinks," says Nyota.
Christ.
"I'm sorry, Selik. I didn't mean that. The answer to your question is absolutely not. Samekh wants to come with us but he's not himself right now."
"He is not angry at me?"
"We'll talk about it later," says Nyota, because she's certainly not equipped to talk about it right now.
Nyota keeps her mind focused, narrow, eyes ahead, mental blocks up.
"Do not worry, Mama, I am not listening to your thoughts," says Amayel through the bond.
"Then how did you know I was trying to block you out?" Nyota returns.
Amayel gives her mental equivalent of an, ummmmmmmmm…
They pull up at T'Pau's. It's a fortress. Parts of it remind Nyota of Stonehenge, the orderly assortment of gigantic stones, fashioned into basic columns and roofs. The only difference is they're at least ten times the height. The house is built into a curving c-shaped cliff, that juts out into a point at the top.
Vulcans generally take the large, curving staircase to the top, but Nyota isn't at that level. She takes the lift.
"Lady Nyota, your arrival is unexpected. Pardon our lack of preparation," says Varum in thickly accented Standard. He enjoys practising with her—or, as he would say, "finds it logical to take advantages of opportunities to improve his skills in the galaxy's lingua franca."
He as well as another guard rushes to the flitter, helping Amayel and Selik out the back.
"Does Honoured Mother T'Pau know that you are coming?"
"This was all a bit spontaneous," Nyota says. She tries to keep her emotional cool. She's failing.
"We will notify her at once."
Varum casts a glance toward Nyota's backpack, also notices the girls' night clothes.
"You are uninjured?"
"I am," says Nyota.
"Do you require food or drink?" Varum asks.
"No."
"Then I will take you to Mother T'Pau."
"Can I put the girls down first?" she asks.
"That is acceptable."
The fortress is twenty-four stories, the first eight functioning essentially as a museum: displays of artifacts salvaged from across the galaxy. The next 8 comprise the library—rare, physical tomes, collected from the world over.
The following eight are the domestic area. Staff live there. The kitchens. The grand dining room.
The girls' sleep on floor 20. Their chambers here are much larger than theirs at home. They still have only one bed, but it's 'king-sized', though in Vulcan it is called kenasu, a compound of sik'gle na'masuk-veh-lar. Footrest for giants.
There is a terrarium that covers the length of one wall. Several plants in the window, which is made of stained glass, depicting scenes from Vulcan history.
Nyota sets the girls down, doesn't bother pulling back the blankets covering the mattress.
Varum grabs Selik's oxygen machine. He has no doubt been briefed about what occurred last night. "I will wait outside for you," he says, before bidding the girls a pleasant sleep and stepping back into the corridor.
"Mama?" Selik asks, the face mask that will help her breath covering only her chin right now. She'll pull it up to cover her mouth and nose before she sleeps.
"Mm?"
"Are you certain the reason Papa did not accompany us here is not because he wishes to keep away from me?"
"So certain."
"Are you mad at me?"
"What did I say in the flitter? We'll talk about last night later. It's time for you to go back to sleep," she says. Selik lies back onto her pillow.
"Are you and Samekh getting p'pi'lai?" asks Amayel.
"What?"
"Are you going to split your minds in half then die?" Amayel says, stare unblinking.
"First off—that's not what p'pil'lai is. Vulcan couples do break their bonds occasionally, and though bonds broken suddenly or without desire from those involved, it can result in mind-sickness, that is not the case in two people deciding they no longer wish to be bonded. But it doesn't matter anyway, because Papa and I do not wish to be unbonded."
"That is not what your minds say," signs Amayel. She's acting more forceful than usual. Her hand gestures break out the tiny frame they usually stay in. Fast and imprecise. "You are angry at Papa."
"This is not for us to talk about right now. I want you to go to sleep. We've had an extremely rough couple of days but I believe that that everything's going to be all right. Read my mind, Amayel. Is that a lie?"
Amayel pauses,then signs. "No."
"So we're good?"
"Just because you believe it does not mean that it is true. People falsely believe in many fictitious things."
"Sure. But the evidence overwhelmingly supports my conclusion."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed," Nyota says.
"Elaborate."
"Your father and I cherish and value each other very much. True or false?"
"True."
"Then that's all the evidence you need. Now sleep."
Amayel frowns, doesn't even try to hide it.
Sighing, Nyota looks for the right words to explain. "You know how sometimes you have to look at something from far away to really see it? Like a birds-eye view of a city. Sometimes you need distance to see the whole picture?"
"Like meditating before making a difficult decision to achieve more objectivity and gain emotional control?" says Amayel.
"Exactly. That's why we're here," Nyota says.
"What is the problem that you require mental distance from? Perhaps Amayel and I can be an objective party. Arbiters, if you will," says Selik.
God, they make her laugh. So much like Spock.
"Thanks, little bird, but no."
"Do you think I do not have enough emotional control to judge fairly? I assure you that I do. I have been meditating frequently. I have been practising. Honoured Great-Grandmother says that I am improving. Do you recall when Maresh said that if I meditate frequently enough I could have powers like Ororo?"
Maresh—there he is again.
Nyota looks at her daughters' faces—Selik's narrow and angular, Amayel's a little softer, less prominent cheekbones, large, wide eyes that speak as loud as any mouth. The twins have grown into themselves so much.
"I realise our lives will always contain a certain amount of discord, but I would like things to return to a marginally more peaceful state, even if it is not a perfect peace," signs Amayel.
Nyota traces the pointy cuff of Amayel's ear with the tip of her index finger. "I know, my love."
"Do you promise you are telling us the truth about what is happening?" Amayel asks.
"Yes."
"The whole truth? No withholding?" signs Amayel, prodding.
"I'm not going to be specific about things that are private and between me and your samekh, but this is the whole truth. We love you. We love each other. We're not always as strong as we wish we were and because of that we make mistakes."
"I think you are the strongest person I know," signs Amayel.
"My sister's assessment is correct," Selik says.
The mattress groans when Nyota sits on it.
"Then trust me when I say I'll get us through this, even if I have to carry both of you and your papa, too. I've survived worse. And so has he. Nothing is more important to either of us than you two, okay?"
She covers the girls with the blanket at the foot of the bed. Kisses their foreheads. Both of them are damp with sweat. One of their bodies' few concessions to their human ancestry. Sudoriferous glands.
"Try to sleep for at least a couple more hours. Then we can have morning meal with Great-Grandmother."
They're already asleep.
She's only been at T'Pau's for ten minutes, but already she feels things coming into much-needed perspective. Whether it's her daughters' inquisitiveness sending her thought process into more fruitful directions, or something else, she's not sure.
She turns the lantern off in their room and shuts the door behind her, Varum waiting for her.
Despite her tiredness, she's wired. She keeps up with Varum's quick, assured steps easily, head held high, no wilt to her body.
The soreness in her throat barely registers. Too much else to think about. That question—how did she and her husband get here? What's happening? It only occurs to her now to actually find Patient Zero.
Eleven months ago she is offered a position with the Vulcan Defence Network in conjunction with Starfleet. She declines. She and Spock are relatively fine at that point. Overworked. Stressed about Selik's first bout of drug resistant lung infection in years. But they're good. Happy enough.
Ten months ago—things are still good. Maybe great? Selik wins several martial arts competitions. Spock is absurdly proud. Amayel transfers to a new school where there are more deaf resources. She designs a study on New Vulcan's prorepous population, an order similar to Terra's rodentia. Current skin and organ regeneration technology is based off isolating and using a particular set of genes in African spiny mouse, an Earth species that has the ability regrow entire limbs. Attempts at regenerating hearts and lungs have failed, however. Amayel thinks New Vulcan desert mice may hold genes more adept for regenerating more complex organs. Re-grow Selik's lungs.
Nine months ago—Maresh convinces Nyota to accept the position with the Vulcan Defence Network. Spock seems fine about this? They sort of quarrel about it. Spock wants to make sure she's not being coerced to do something against her principles. Is he jealous? Maybe. If so, it's well-contained and controlled.
Eight months ago—The Vulcan Science Academy's Medical Research Centre reaches out to Spock and Nyota regarding an experimental treatment for Selik. Spock and Nyota both decide against it. Things are becoming more strained. Work is picking up in a major way for Nyota. She is home much less frequently. He is home much less frequently.
Seven months ago—a one week trip to a deep space outpost to test a beta model of her program. The budget allows for only three. She, Maresh, and one other researcher on the project. At the last moment, the third researcher became ill and could not attend, leaving Nyota and Maresh alone for the journey. Spock was definitely…emotionally compromised upon finding out. Nothing too outrageous. A snippy comment. Skipping supper to go meditate. When she returns, things are all right. He has sex with her vigorously and frequently. She recognises that he's marking her, re-claiming her. Then the letter from the Other Spock. The last night they have sex.
Six months ago—Selik's second drug resistant lung infection of the year. It lasts until:
Four months ago—Surgeons cut into Spock and graft some of his lung tissue onto Selik's. Vast improvement. They get temporary leave to take care of her at home. Teachers express concern regarding Amayel's withdrawal at school. Becoming more isolated from her peers. Refusing to engage with other children.
Three months ago—the twins turn seven. Selik begins preparations for her kahs-wan. Spock reveals his concerns to Nyota about allowing her to go. It's the first meaningful conversation she and Spock have since the Letter. He says: I have failed to do what is necessary to cure her and in doing so may be responsible for denying her her Vulcan birth-right.
Two months ago—Maresh mentors Selik as she builds her weather machine. Spock grows increasingly distant.
One month ago—Busyness.
Now—here they all are. Last night had certainly been a turning point.
They had held each other close and it seemed like everything would be fine…
But this morning. The love is there. That's clear. She sees it now. Accepts its existence. It was easy to chalk up their troubles to a lack of affection.
Her comm dings. She ignores it, reaching into her bag, fumbling around til she feels it to turn it off.
It dings again.
Again. Again.
"If you wish for privacy whilst you take your call, I am amenable to stepping into a room."
"No, Varum, it's fine," she tells the guard.
He leads her to the lift, and she gladly follows him in. "24," he says, and they begin their ascent. The comm buzzes again, this time more sustained.
This time she picks it up to see who it is, disappointed when she sees Maresh's name on the ID and not Spock's.
"Lt.-Commander Uhura," she answers.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander. I was calling to inquire after your well-being. I was expecting you eleven minutes and nine seconds ago."
But it's Saturday.
What's Saturday?
Fuck.
Saturday the 3rd.
The Saturday that Shaltra-lan Salvir from Vulcan High Command is visiting to do an inspection on their facilities, investigating the preliminary hardware and examining their progress. He is the Admiral of Vulcan Command and sees to most projects he initiates personally. He's known for being intensely demanding and critical. Nyota had been looking forward to proving herself, especially after she heard he'd been one who fought against her appointment to her position.
To Vulcans, Saturday means nothing. There is hardly such thing as a weekend.
"My regrets, Osu, but I am dealing with a family emergency."
"Is someone's death imminent?"
Got to love Vulcans for getting to the point.
"No."
"Then I beg you to reconsider and attend. Shaltra-lan Salvir will be here in twenty-nine minutes and eight seconds. He will not look favourably upon your absence. Further, there are several aspects of your research only you can explain. What is the emergency? May I be of assistance in some way?"
"It's my daughter, Selik. She had a really severe asthma attack."
"That is regrettable. Her condition requires monitoring?"
"She's stable but as I am sure you understand I am hesitant to leave her at the moment."
Nyota doesn't mention the other elements of discord in her family.
"I will do what is necessary to reschedule the inspection. Peace and Long life, Lieutenant-Commander."
The line goes dead.
Varum is pointedly not looking at her in the lift. They've reached their floor, but the doors aren't opened. He's holding them closed for her.
"It is ill-mannered for your commanding officer to question you in such a way after you told him you were experiencing a family emergency?"
"You heard that?" she asks.
"I did."
"We're both under a lot of pressure."
"Pressure is irrelevant to a Vulcan in-control of his emotions and faculties."
Nyota looks away and slides her phone back into her bag.
"You are uncomfortable because you believe me to be intrusive," Varum says.
Nyota shrugs her shoulders. "Can I ask you something, Varum?"
"Of course, Lady Nyota. And as I have told you before, you do not have to ask me if it is acceptable to pose a query. Your queries are always acceptable."
Nyota takes a second to figure out how best to phrase what she wants to say. After a moment's pause, she comes up with something workable. "Are there any circumstances where it would be acceptable for a Vulcan to touch another if they are not bonded or familiar?"
Nyota expects he'll have to think about the question for a few moments, but he answers immediately and without hesitation. "No," he says.
"What about an accident?" asks Nyota.
"Vulcans do not touch 'accidentally'," Varum says. He sounds ever-so-slightly indignant.
"Never?" she asks.
"Never. We do not suffer the lack of coordination that plagues humans."
Nyota swallows deeply, audibly.
"Were you touched in such a manner, Lady Nyota?"
"Briefly. About a week ago. We were working late. I was drinking coffee. I'd finished it. Whilst it was still in my hand, and without me asking him to, he grabbed it," she says, thinking it best to just put it out there exactly what happened, let him parse what it means.
"Was there telepathic contact?"
"I think I received some sense of what was on his mind, though at the time it seemed like the thoughts were coming from myself rather than him. I'm not really sure. I was left feeling confused more than anything," says Nyota. She looks up at Varum for any trace of judgment on his face but does not detect any.
"It would not be difficult for a Vulcan to manipulate the touch to make it appear as if you were thinking something that you were not; and one who would initiate touch without your explicit consent would not be above such tactics," says Varum.
"It's disheartening."
"To what doyou refer?" Varum asks.
"Just the idea that you can never really be safe from that kind of thing." It had been naïve for her to expect anything else, but she had. Sometimes it feels like she will never learn.
"I, Osu Spock, and many loyal to this House will always do whatever is necessary to insure your safety and well-being."
Nyota nods, anything to conceal her face from Varum's eyes.
"I am ready to see T'Pau now."
Varum says, "Open," and the lift doors slide apart swiftly.
A few of the servants, attendants, and workers buzzing around busily look at her but only for a second before returning to their tasks.
"Lady Nyota," they say, acknowledging her as she walks by.
Varum leads her to T'Pau's study, the room she uses for reading and meditation. It's a small, personal library that's not actually that small: the size of it larger than the house that Nyota grew up in.
"She is expecting you," says Varum.
"Thank you so much, Varum."
"It is my sincere honour to serve. Would you like me to notify Spock of what you told me in the lift? He will deal with it swiftly and decisively. If not, I feel I am obligated to tell T'Pau myself; though I understand you told me that in assumed confidence."
Nyota shakes her head vigorously. "I'll deal with it. Please don't tell anyone?"
"Lady Nyota, you should not bear the responsibility for such things."
"I can take care of myself."
Varum's brow squeezes tightly for a moment, before his expression straightens. "As you wish."
He turns on his heel and leaves her. Nyota rings the bell on T'Pau's office door.
"Enter," she says.
T'Pau is sitting on a stone bench reading from a PADD when Nyota comes in.
"I'm sorry to disturb you."
"Tell me the condition of my great-granddaughters," asks T'Pau.
"Tired. Confused. But healthy. Amayel is no longer in any pain. Selik's breathing is good. I attached her to the oxygen machine anyway."
"And tell me your condition," T'Pau says, still reading the PADD. Nyota doesn't take it personally. There are only 24 hours in a day, but T'Pau is frequently scheduled as if there are 30 or 40 hour days.
"I'm fine."
"Fine is variable," says T'Pau.
Stressed about Salvir's inspection. About Maresh. About Spock. Her entire life. "I don't know, Honoured Matriarch."
T'Pau sets the PADD down. "Two staff members are preparing a room for you. You will go there and sleep and recover. Though you are unable to ascertain your state, I can easily discern that you are malnourished and hungry, overworked and tired. Further, given that you are here, I can posit that you are in some amount of emotional discomfort."
Nyota stands by the door, leans back into the frame. "I don't think I could sleep if I tried."
"What busies your mind?"
"Work, right now."
"Your contributions to the Defence Network brings honour to our House."
It's one of T'Pau's rare, every-once-in-a-blue-moon compliments. "Thank you, T'Pau."
"Your gratitude is illogical. I only speak truths. Come, I will lead you to the room in which you will stay."
T'Pau leads Nyota herself through the various residential wings, back down to the floor where the girls sleep.
"I will send you tea and a light meal. Otherwise, you should sleep. Notify me when you awake." T'Pau leaves without another word.
Nyota fishes her phone out of her bag again, sees the message from Maresh.
I have delayed the inspection until tomorrow at 7:00am. Is that acceptable?
Nyota writes back. Yes. Thank you.
She waits a few seconds before writing more. I need to speak to you about a matter of great importance, she says.
She plans to ask he volunteer his resignation. Touching a subordinate's fingers wouldn't be grounds for something so drastic on Terra, but it's a great violation of Vulcan custom.
When? he returns.
As soon as possible.
A longer pause, then he writes, I will be occupied the remainder of the day preparing for the inspection. Come to the relay station this evening at 22:00. You will be able to do anything you need in preparation for tomorrow, as well.
10 o'clock at night. She rolls her eyes. Vulcans tend to work well into the evening, but the relay station will assuredly be empty by then, at least the section in which she and Maresh usually work. It's so obviously calculating on his part. She hates that she spent most of this year trusting him, for believing she was the one out of line, misinterpreting his behaviour, projecting her human analyses onto his Vulcan actions. It's worse knowing that he exploited her uncertainty to take advantage.
22:00? she texts back, hoping the multiple question marks convey her tone, as much as that's possible over written medium. I think that's really too late, but I'll be there. I plan only to speak my piece then leave. I have nothing left to prepare for the inspection tomorrow.
Deciding her words are too harsh for, what after all, are rather minor infractions, she adds, and thank you again for rescheduling the inspection. His reputation precedes him, and I know that must've been difficult.
It's more than fourteen hours from now until she has to meet him. It will give her time to rest, to get her mind in order, to make sure the girls are taken care of. She'll put them to sleep at 9 or 9:30, as usual, then head there.
As she resolves to deal with Maresh, Nyota feels an extreme lightness overcome her. She flops down onto her mattress. Kicks her shoes off. It's only one of the matters that needs dealing with, but it's a big one. Clearing the air with Maresh may make it easier to speak with Spock. She's been keeping this secret for some time because, a) Spock has so obviously been under stress and hardly needs one more thing to set him off, and b) this is about her, not him. She can handle it just fine. Once she sleeps.
As Nyota's eyes fall shut, her fingers squeezing a pillow, she thinks of Spock and the night she'd followed him back to his place after her speech at the open house, twenty-one years old and so sure of herself, or so unsure of herself. Who could say. Sometimes those two feelings present themselves identically.
She remembers how it felt having someone she looked up to expect nothing from her but academic excellence and stimulating conversation.
Her experiences with Spock made her think that Vulcans in general lacked ulterior motives. But she's since learned that's not true. What she thought was a Vulcan trait was in reality a Spock trait. His commitment to honesty and honour are unrivalled. It makes what happened earlier this morning even more confusing.
Nyota sleeps dreamlessly.
She wakes up at noon to the sound of the girls in the corridor, talking to, she's not sure, is it Varum? No. Another guard? Nyota springs up and goes to the bedroom door. Closer now, she hears that it's Sarek. Nyota's smile appears on her face as soon as she opens the door and sees that the twins have cornered him.
T'Pau really is closing in ranks if she called him here from his latest ambassadorial duties.
"Nyota," says Sarek, looking at her with a look she swears is supposed to mean, save me from this mortal coil.
He is holding the girls each in either arm as they interrogate him on his travels.
"Ladies, do you think you can give your grandfather a second to adjust himself before you ambush him?" she asks. Sarek's attendants are standing adjacent to him, still carrying his bags. He must not have gone up to see T'Pau yet.
"An ambush is a surprise attack made by parties who have previously concealed their location, therefore this is not an ambush, as Samekh-al was privy to our location," signs Amayel, truly offended by the comparison.
"Indeed. Grandfather came into our rooms whilst we slept, and we heard him as he shut the door to leave," says Selik.
"I desired to see them," says Sarek, defending his actions, "as well as leave them items I purchased for them."
"Items you purchased?" asks Selik and is immediately out of Sarek's arm.
She runs back to her room across the corridor. Nyota follows her in there, and Sarek and Amayel join them.
"You spoil them," says Nyota, taking a seat on the girls' storage trunk as she looks what their Samekh-al bought.
The first gift is obvious. A large gold cage with a bird inside that looks a cross between a crow and a peacock. All black except for tufts of white on its head. A long, feathered tail. The bird has only one eye, its other one apparently lost. "For you, Amayel."
Amayel runs up to the cage and unlatches the lock before her Samekhal can stop her. "Careful, child, as she has already robbed one of my guards of his fingers. She bites. Hard. I had to use the dermal regenerator, as well."
The bird shrinks backward in her cage and covers her face with her feathered wings.
Amayel reaches out her hand slowly and cautiously, several inches from the birds face. "Amayel. Stop," says Nyota, standing.
Amayel waves her mother away. With the outstretched hand, she begins to fingerspell a message that the bird could not possibly understand. "Your fear is understandable, so far from home you are."
"I am signing with her so you all might be able to communicate with her, too, some day. But she can hear my thoughts perfectly fine, I can tell. And I can hear her mind."
"I suspected you might be able to," says Sarek. "She is highly revered on her own planet. Hunted. They are believed to be oracles. They are nearly extinct. Look further," he says.
Amayel looks into the cage, past the black bird. "Eggs," she signs excitedly. "Seven." She is almost smiling and it is beautiful. Nyota loves to see her quiet girl's light shine.
"They will hatch in approximately twenty-seven days," says Sarek.
"They are all for me to care for?" asks Amayel.
"Yes. The adult birds live forever if they are not killed, but new chicks are hatched very rarely. Once every hundred years were the estimates I frequently heard. These are a rare gem, little one. I know that you will raise them with compassion and care."
Nyota examines her daughter's face, can see the little girl's wheels turning: building a proper keep, securing food, protecting them from the wild miyat-lar that roam near their property. Of course, keeping detailed records of their growth, their skills.
"Do I even want to ask how much they cost?" asks Nyota.
"No," Sarek says. "My mother has as a result of this purchase cut of my free access to what constitutes the family's endowment."
Oh, dear.
Selik stands quietly near the door, her hands behind her back, her face impressively impassive. Nyota looks away for a moment, back toward Sarek and Amayel signing together, and when she turns back to Selik, she is gone.
"Excuse me for one second," says Nyota. Amayel and Sarek, engrossed in bird discussion, acknowledge her with a nod but do not look away from the cage.
"Selik?" Nyota calls in the corridor. The little girl is half way to the staircase, a guard jogging after her. "Selik, come here, right now."
"I am going to meditate," she says. Nyota's eyes are rolling at that because talk about like father, like daughter. Meditation seems to be their go-to Avoid Confrontation Card.
"No. Where you're going is to talk to me. Come back here."
Nyota can't hear her daughter's laboured breath per se, but she knows it's there. Selik turns and walks about to her mother.
"What do you require, Mama?" asks Selik.
Nyota kneels down so they are level. "An explanation. You didn't even wait to see what Samekh-al got you. It's not like you to run away like that."
"I do not wish to know at the present time," she says, words leaving her lips quickly but her manner otherwise restrained.
"Why not, little bird? You always appreciate Samekh'al's presents," asks Nyota.
"Because I am certain that whatever it is will not compare to those birds. Perhaps that is as it should be. I do not deserve such a fascinating gift. Amayel has consistently proven herself the more responsible of we two. The more mature. She does not need a kahs-wan to show her passage into adolescence, but were she to do it,she would not only survive but flourish," says Selik, her cheeks flushing green, her bottom lip wobbling before stiffening. "Who would trust the girl who cannot even breathe for herself—the most basic of physiological functions—to do anything meaningful? Not Papa. Not you. Not Grandfather. Not the other half of my heart. It is logical but painful and I wish to be alone. Please tell Samekh-al and Amayel that I am in the library."
None of the sadness and defeat Selik must surely feel colours her tone. She is perfectly cold. Calm.
Selik's eyes meet Nyota's. They do not shy away.
"What is it, Mama? What is there to say? I have spoken nothing but truths. May I go now?"
"I'm not letting you go anywhere thinking such silly thoughts about yourself."
"Mama, please do not—"
"Don't what? Tell you that that I adore you? That even if you weren't one of the kindest, most intelligent, passionate, and determined people in the world, you would be treasured and worthy and deserve only good things?"
Her words don't penetrate, her daughter's let-down air still apparent.
"I wanted to do my kahs-wan. I wanted to prove to you and Samekh that I am capable, that I am an agent, that I am the subject of my own life. I wanted to feel powerful."
"You are powerful."
Sarek steps out into the corridor, shuts the door behind himself leaving Amayel alone in the bedroom. "Granddaughter, I would present you your gift now, if you would find it agreeable."
Selik looks at her samekh-al, then back at Nyota, then back at Samekh-al. "Gifts are childish and illogical. What have I done to be awarded with material goods? I am going to meditate." She speeds away.
"Selik," Nyota calls after her. "Selik, get back here." She starts to jog after her, but Selik breaks into a sprint past the guards, who let her go past without even the illusion of a struggle. God, they are all so whipped by the twins.
"Granddaughter, listen to she who is your mother," Sarek shouts down the hall.
But like a flash, Selik whips around a corner and is gone.
Nyota's about to take the turn when she hears T'Pau's voice from behind. "Leave her," she says. "The desire to deal with and confront unpleasant or shameful emotions in privacy is logical."
Though it's Nyota's tendency to do that very thing, she doubts not only its efficacy but its safety. Spock's intense desire for privacy, to deal with whatever the hell it is he's going through alone, has cast a valley between them. Amayel's silence about what she suffered at camp is a direct extension of that. Children learn by doing. She sees her parents withhold and so she withholds, too. It's not rocket science.
Now Selik is doing the same thing.
"Last night when I left her to deal with her emotions she ran away and nearly died, so how about no," says Nyota. The few attendants in the corridor do a head swivel. "Sarek, stay with Amayel until I get back." He does the same confused eyelid flutter Spock sometimes does, nods, looks at his mother, looks quickly away, and then goes back into the girls' bedroom.
"Granddaughter by marriage, confronting emotions by oneself is not the same as deliberately shielding them from others. Every young Vulcan on Surak's path will inevitably find themselves dealing with such struggles on the road to maturity. She will not learn if you always interfere with her emotional processing."
"Then I guess she won't learn."
Nyota walks away, catching Selik's trail quickly. She knows all of her daughter's hiding spots.
Selik loves the twelfth floor stacks. No guards. Low lights because the windows are tiny and made of dark, stained glass. It's wear she keeps the most collectible of her hard copy comics, the oldest from 1975, kept in a protective sleeve made of clear, bullet-proof rodinum. Storm's first X-Men appearance.
It was a gift from Sarek two years ago.
When Nyota goes to the Reading Room, toward the coded-locked shelf where Selik stores her comics, she sees that it is empty, and there is no Selik. At least 100 issues gone.
Nyota goes to the work room next, where Amayel and Selik complete their homework, conduct experiments. It's a small, simple space with a few tables and microscopes, a few computer consoles.
Selik is inside. She holds a pair of scissors.
"Sweetheart," says Nyota.
"I told you do not call me that!" says Selik, and cuts through one of the comics. There is already a pile of shredded paper on the floor.
Nyota walks up and jerks the scissors from Selik's hand.
"Why are you doing this, little one?" she asks, taking a seat next to Selik, seeing the pile of priceless, cut-up comics on the floor. The contents of the pile are millions of credits. She pulls her daughter up onto her lap. Selik doesn't resist. She turns to her side and settles her head on her mother's chest, pulls her legs up off the floor and onto her mother's thighs.
"Comics are childish. Storm is childish. I wish to be taken seriously," says Selik.
"I take you very seriously. So does everyone else. You know what Great-Grandmother just said to me? Every Vulcan on the cusp of growing up finds herself at a crossroads such as this. You know what that means? That we recognise you are getting older."
"I do not know how you all can take me seriously when I cannot take myself seriously," says Selik. Her voice is steady but a pitch or two higher than normal.
"Trust me when I say I know exactly what it feels like to have all your power stripped from you. Sometimes others do it to us," says Nyota, closing her and swallowing so she can continue. "Sometimes our minds and bodies do it to us. Sometimes we feel like visitors inside our own skin."
"That is an apt comparison," says Selik. "However, I cannot imagine you powerless."
"Well, I have been. It's an incredibly frightening feeling. "
"Yes," says Selik, pressing her head further into Nyota's bosom.
"I will do what I can to help you find it again, whatever it takes, and so will your samekh, and your sister, and your samekh-al, and Honoured Great-Grandmother, and everyone here who cherishes and adores you." Nyota strokes her daughter's hair.
"I destroyed my comics," Selik says.
"Yeah, you did." Nyota has no words of comfort to soothe that particular ache.
"They were very valuable. They were…important to me, though it is illogical."
"I know they were, little one," says Nyota, continuing to run her fingers through Selik's tight coils.
"I am so stupid."
"You made a mistake," Nyota says, chiding.
"All I do is make mistakes."
"It's the human in you. Sorry. My fault." She's trying to make a joke and she hopes it doesn't fall too flat.
"I would do anything to be just like you."
"How about you do everything to be just like yourself and come join all of us for lunch?"
Selik squeezes her fingers into Nyota's shoulders. "In a few moments. I would like to stay here for a while longer with you, if you do not find it disagreeable."
"I don't."
Selik ends up in sitting in Nyota's lap for two hours, falling asleep there, still so exhausted.
When Nyota takes her back to the room, Amayel is in bed, too. Sarek is sitting in the corner of the bedroom reading.
"It's been a long time since I've seen them both this exhausted," says Nyota, laying Selik onto the mattress.
"Emotional strain can be as wearing as physical strain, especially on ones so young," says Sarek.
"It's good see you," says Nyota. "You've been gone a long time."
"Indeed," he says. "If I have your permission, I would take both girls with me to the Ship Gardens Exhibit tonight whilst the Excalibur is still in the system. I understand you may wish to take disciplinary action on Selik at some point soon after discussing with he who is your husband, but it is the last evening before the ship will be departing."
The Ship Gardens are a football-field-by-football field sized garden, over fifteen stories, built inside of an old, refitted star-exploratory vessel called Excalibur, containing botanical specimens from across the galaxy. It takes turns orbiting various planets.
"That's a good idea. Go for it," says Nyota. Something both of the girls will enjoy. Something that will tire them out and distract them from everything else going on.
"I am gratified. We will leave here at sixteen hundred, remain at the gardens for three hours, dine out, and return here in time for bed," Sarek says.
"They won't be too much of a handful?" asks Nyota.
"They have been known to test my competence but I am confident I will persevere."
Nyota is thankful in advance for the alone time. She'll have time to clean herself up thoroughly, prepare what she's going to say to Maresh, maybe call and check on Spock. She nudges on the bond. A far away burning ignites in the corners of her consciousness, but as usual, he pulls away too quickly for her to latch onto it.
She only left a few hours ago. He's okay. He's fine. She gnaws on her bottom lip until the sensitive skin becomes irritated.
After the girls awake, she cleans and dresses them, goes to the kitchens to prepare them a snack. The chefs shoo her away and fix up fried flatbread made out of yartik flour, a dish that's always reminded Nyota of chapati, though doughier and cooked in a deeper vat of oil. For fillings they prepare various legumes, mashed herbs, dumplings.
She and the girls eat as if their lives depended on it, their first meal all day.
There is a flurry of activity in the corridor, and Nyota stands up, leaving her plate behind on the table.
"Spock?" she asks, still swallowing her food when she runs through the doorway out of the dining area.
It's T'Pau and Sarek walking together down the hall, attendants, as well as what look like lawyers judging by the colours of their robes. T'Pau had meant it, then, when she said she planned to press formal charges against the camp. This shouldn't come as a surprise. T'Pau has never said something she didn't 100% intend to follow up on.
Nyota finishes off the late afternoon meal and sees Sarek and the twins off to their garden excursion. Avoiding T'Pau, she heads back to her temporary guestroom, pulls out her comm.
No messages.
Are you doing okay? Nyota types. She's about to press send but doesn't. She deletes the message, starts over.
I love you. How you holding up?
Too patronising. Delete.
I miss you, she decides, then presses send.
#
There's still an hour and a half until Nyota has to meet Maresh.
She scrubs her skin raw. She pours about a half bottle of conditioner into her hair, massaging it through the strands. She lets it sit there as she stands under the flow of water, turning up the heat on the water every minute. She is tingling and dark red.
Once the conditioner has softened her hair, she runs through it with a comb, rinses it out before stepping out of the shower.
Nyota plans to straighten it for the first time in two years. Something different. The sonic dryer makes quick work of it, blowing out her curls into something more-or-less straight in less than five minutes. Flat-ironing is harder and takes longer. She's glad her biceps are strong.
Sports bra. Boy briefs. Undershirt. Formal uniform. Top-bun. Moisturiser. Bronzer. Black liquid eyeliner. Blush.
And done. Ready to destroy. She grabs her bag and heads out.
"Lady Nyota."
Nyota looks back over her shoulder. "Varum. Hi."
"You are leaving," he says.
"Yeah. Work. Got to take care of a few things. I should be back in less than an hour."
"I will get permission from Honoured Mother T'Pau to accompany you," says Varum.
Nyota quickens her pace, hoping Varum will take the hint. Of course he doesn't. Vulcans don't get hints.
"I'm fine, Varum."
"The hour is late. Will you be at your workplace alone?"
"I'm fine," she says, heading to the lift.
"Will your Commanding Officer be in attendance?" he asks.
Nyota enters the lift, tells it to take her to floor zero. Valets drove the flitter into the underground garage. "Peace and long life, Varum," she says as the doors close.
It's a short trip to the relay station to meet Maresh. 200 kilometres. Approximately 15 minutes in the flitter. She checks her reflection in the rear-view mirror, the autopilot handling the navigation.
The retinal scanners at each gate and door are asleep and take several seconds to register her presence.
"Welcome Lieutenant-Commander S'chn T'gai Nyota Uhura," the scanner says.
After the retinal scan, she holds her thumb up against the pad, the laser running over her print.
"Identity confirmed," the system says.
She passes by her lab, stops in and sets her bag down. Nyota's workspace here looks nothing like her previous ones have. Everything is alphabetized. Everything is in its place. There are no old mugs of coffee sitting on stacks of papers, or forgotten styluses under a desk. They've turned her even more fastidious than she already was.
She locks her lab and goes to meet her CO at 21:59 precisely.
Maresh is standing with his back to her once she makes it to the main operations centre. Her operations centre. All hardware the put together and designed herself.
"Lieutenant-Commander," Maresh says, turning to face her. His eyes sweep up and down. He's done that before. She's always chalked it up to him being hyper observant. "It was not necessary for you to wear your uniform," he says.
"I disagree," says Nyota, going over the script she wrote herself in her head.
"You may state the matter you wished to discuss," says Maresh.
She takes three steps toward him, lifts her chin so their eyes are nearly level. "Your behaviour, Sir." She pauses, letting it sink in for him. He waits for her to continue without comment. "You behave inappropriately with me."
"I do not understand. Specify," he says.
"With all due respect, Sir, that's bullshit," says Nyota.
God, it feels good to say that. It's what she's suspected for some time. Her conversation with Varum was confirmation.
"You touch me," Nyota says, referring not just to the finger touch she'd mentioned to Varum, but the way he stands so closely to her when they're working, brushes his hand against her side, her hips.
"I did not intend to discomfit you," says Maresh.
Good, at least he's not denying anything.
"Also bullshit. Sir. You deliberately targeted me because of my vulnerability. My newness here. My foreignness."
"I exploited a weakness in an attempt to secure what I know should be mine."
Ah, the capitalist way.
"At least you're honest," says Nyota.
"Why should I be anything else? You are brilliant and beautiful. You deserve more than an ulef kosh-ves who would take you for granted and neglect you as he as."
"If you call my husband a half-breed again I won't hesitate to report your actions thus far to the High Command Court. And is that what you think of my Selik? My daughter? Who also has mixed heritage? The girl who trusted you and who you mentored?"
"I misspoke."
"You're despicable." She's lost any pretence of calm now. "I want you to resign."
"Though you are the leader on this project, my contribution as well as my role as liaison between Starfleet and our Council is too great," he says.
"I don'y mean resign from your post. I mean resign from High Command."
"That is certainly drastic."
It is. She knows it is. Maybe she's punishing him for more sins than his own.
"Do you accept?" she asks. Nyota feels a distant tingling in the back of her mind. Pins and needles. It's Spock. He's close by. Outside the building. He won't be able to get clearance to get in.
"Do you?" Nyota repeats.
Maresh seems on the verge of answering when a voice from the overhead comes on, accompanied by an alarm. "Unauthorised entry," it says.
Nyota knows her husband is inside the station. He's coming for her, and he's burning.
I've been working on this chapter for several weeks now. Still not completely satisfied with it. Oh, well. Reviews are always cherished. Thank you.