Chapter 8: Shaken
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Nyota wakes up as she tumbles from her bed, landing hard on her elbow. She yelps in pain and looks around.
The room is dark but she can hear Gaila breathing hard on the floor, also apparently tossed from her bed. "Are you okay?" Nyota calls out. Gingerly she bends one knee, then another, and pushes herself upright. A shadowy figure on the other side of the room rises and wavers uncertainly—Gaila, making her way towards her.
"Lights!" Nyota says, but the room remains dark, the only visible light the tiny blue connection node on her comm on the bedside table.
"What happened? Was that an earthquake?" Gaila says, her voice muffled with shock or the remnants of sleep. Stumbling forward, she trips and lets out a colorful Orion curse.
"Watch out!" Nyota cautions. With one hand trailing the edge of her bed, she makes her way to the bedside table, grabs her comm, and flicks on the flashlight function. In two steps Gaila is beside her.
In the distance a siren sounds. Then another joins it, this one moving steadily closer.
An earthquake alright. During her first year at the Academy, Nyota experienced two quakes a month apart, neither one serious or causing much damage, both preceded by an odd rumbling noise that even now she can recall in perfect clarity. Of course she knew that San Francisco straddled a fault line. That accounted for some of the peculiarities of architecture—unusual braces incorporated into the design of larger buildings, flexible footings as foundations of smaller structures.
Still, knowing the earth could slip under your feet at any time was different from actually experiencing it.
She turns the flashlight to Gaila and examines her roommate's face. No bruises or cuts—just a startled expression that probably mirrors her own.
"What are you doing?" Gaila protests, shading her eyes with her hand. With a click, Nyota turns off the light and the room is dark again.
"The power lines must be cut," she says. At her side, Gaila snorts and says, "You think?"
Someone bangs on their door and Nyota stumbles her way to it. With a tug, she pulls it open and sees that the emergency floor strips are on in the hall, a uniformed security officer standing in the doorway.
"Everybody okay in here?" he says.
She nods and walks out into the hall, listening to the students chattering. Suddenly the overhead lights flicker on—dimmer than usual, so they must be running on an auxiliary generator—and the students in the hall cheer.
No use trying to go back to sleep. With a glance at her comm, Nyota sees that it's 0443. The sun will be up soon. She might as well get dressed and check out the rest of the campus.
A quick walk to the cafeteria shows a line of other sleepy cadets with the same idea. Someone has put a sign on the door saying "No hot breakfast," but Nyota doesn't care. Yogurt and fruit and some kind of sliced flatbread are already laid out. Grabbing a container of yogurt, she ponders whether to stay and eat or to take it with her.
"Sally!" a voice calls out behind her. "Here's a seat!"
Jim Kirk—looking as scruffy as she feels. With a frown, she shakes her head and exits. She has no idea what Gaila sees in him.
Well, that isn't completely true. He's incredibly annoying, his joke of giving her a different name every time he sees her not the least bit funny. And although she's told him more than once that she's not interested in helping him with his Kobayashi Maru simulation, he continues to ask her to join his team.
But he is smart—she admits reluctantly—and he has a sort of charm that pulls people to him naturally. And he's cute, with those unnaturally blue eyes.
Still, if Gaila didn't live by her own rules of engagement, without need or desire for advice or direction from Nyota, she'd bend her roommate's ear until she was forced to listen to her warnings about getting involved with such an immature heartbreaker.
Lost in her thoughts, Nyota walks east across the commons, the rising sun on the horizon, the language building looming into view. With a start she realizes that she can check on the lab—and if Commander Spock isn't inside, report any damage to him.
Except that her comm still seems to be down. Like the electricity, the communication relays must have been interrupted by the quake.
The front entrance to the language building is locked but Nyota keys in an override password and tugs open the door. Only one emergency light is on inside—which is not a surprise. As she ascends the shadowy stairwell to the third floor, she pauses on each landing and listens, but all she hears is silence.
When she gets to the top landing she knows immediately that the Commander is not there. His office is dark, the door shut. With a sigh, she walks down to the lab and opens it up.
The console closest to the outer wall has turned over, three computer stations scattered on the floor. In the dim light she can't tell if they are damaged or merely tumbled around.
Passing the break room, she peers in and sees nothing amiss. Likewise, Commander Spock's office looks to be intact. She's frankly surprised that the Commander isn't already here, making sure the lab is secure. For the third time that morning, she dials his number. Nothing.
Nyota makes her way carefully back out the building and goes to her dorm. By now the normal electricity has been restored and she gratefully takes a hot shower before sitting on her bed, redialing the Commander's comm. Nothing, though when she tries to call her friends to check on them, she gets through only half the time. Apparently some of the signal towers are still down.
The campus mail, however, is up, and Nyota checks her queue for some word from Commander Spock. Nothing there as well—so she sends him a note.
I hope you weren't hurt in the quake. The lab has some damage, but your office looks okay. Let me know if I need to do anything.
As soon as she sends it a campus wide notice flashes in her box, alerting students that the classroom buildings are being checked for safety and are off-limits until midday. Nyota tabs open a media feed and scans it for news—and is surprised to see that parts of the city are still without power, that the transit lines are closed. A banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen with a tally of the injured—74.
As she reads, Nyota thumbs Commander Spock's number on her comm. On the fifth try she gets a connection tone and is able to place the call. With the comm pinioned between her ear and shoulder, she counts fifteen rings before she finally hangs up.
All morning she vacillates between checking the news and trying to contact Commander Spock. Gaila is in and out, in and out, personally checking on people in other dorms, and by lunchtime their mutual friends are accounted for—with only one sprained ankle and some overturned furniture the most serious damage.
At 1215 Gaila suggests lunch but Nyota tells her she'll catch up later after she checks on the lab.
"I thought you went by the lab earlier," Gaila says, but Nyota murmurs something indistinct about needing to go again. Gaila shoots her a sly look that Nyota pretends not to see.
This time the lights are on inside and as soon as she enters the building, she hears the telltale noise of people going about their business—shuffles and bumps and scrapes and chatter, and the comforting sound of machinery—the whir of air handlers and the hum of computers, the high-pitched whine of light bulbs that Nyota knows not many people hear or attend to.
She also knows—before she reaches the third-floor landing—that Commander Spock is not here. His office is as silent as a tomb, the lab dark and locked.
"That was quick!" Gaila grins as Nyota sets her lunch tray on the table and slides into a chair opposite. "Didn't see anything? Or anyone?"
"Commander Spock wasn't there, if that's what you're asking."
"Maybe his apartment was one of the ones damaged," Gaila says, spearing a strawberry with a fork. "I saw something about the faculty housing on the news."
Well, of course that must be it. He's busy cleaning up toppled bookshelves or spilled cooler contents. She feels the crease between her brows disappear.
Through the rest of the meal she only half listens as Gaila prattles about a project she needs to finish for Professor McKnight as soon as the tech station opens back up and students are allowed to access the high-speed cybertronics lab.
"You know," Gaila says, leaning forward and waving her empty fork in the air, "you haven't heard a word I've said."
Nyota opens her mouth to deny it but Gaila hurries on.
"It's true," she says. "I can see in your eyes that you're a million kilometers away." With an impish grin, she adds, "Or maybe just on the other side of the campus. Like at the faculty housing?"
When Nyota looks up and frowns, Gaila says, "Why don't you call him? And don't tell me you don't know who I mean. Call the Commander and make sure he's okay. You know you want to. You're sitting here worried that he's gotten hurt."
With a sigh, Nyota says, "I already did. Call him, I mean. He doesn't answer."
"Then send him a note. The campus mail is up."
Nyota shrugs. "I already did that too. This morning. No word back."
She can see surprise cross Gaila's features.
"Oh! I'm sure he's okay. He's probably just busy," Gaila says, a note of false cheer in her voice.
They both know that's not likely—or at least Nyota assumes Gaila knows that. After all, Gaila works closely with the Commander designing the annual upgrade for the Kobayashi Maru program. If anyone knows how particular and meticulous the Commander can be, Gaila does.
"Susan!"
Nyota groans at the sound of Jim Kirk's voice behind her. With a wave of her hand, Gaila motions to him and he starts to sit down.
"Here," Nyota says, picking up her tray and standing up. "You can have my seat."
"What? You leaving already? I just got here!"
"Exactly," she says, making sure to meet his gaze before walking away, ponytail swinging in what she hopes is obvious annoyance. She's actually not as annoyed as she pretends—Kirk's arrival gives her an excuse to leave without Gaila in tow. With one last look behind her, she sets her tray in the return line and hurries out into the weak afternoon sunlight.
A brisk 15-minute walk later, Nyota is at the entrance of the faculty housing where Commander Spock lives. The building looks fine, though the quake could have done some damage inside. With the heel of her hand, she presses hard on the outside intercom panel and leans in close.
"Commander," she says, "this is Cadet Uhura. I'm…concerned…because I haven't heard from you since the earthquake. Are you okay?"
She pulls back her hand and waits for a reply. Nothing. Pressing the button again, she says, "Commander Spock? Are you home?"
For several minutes she waits, worried that he's lying hurt under a heavy piece of toppled furniture, unable to call for help.
Then a young man wearing a jacket too heavy for the weather comes up the walkway and slides his ID across the entrance panel, releasing the lock. As he swings open the door, Nyota steps up.
"Excuse me," she says, "but I left my card inside my apartment. Thanks!"
And before he can protest or question her, she slips past him to the hallway. Pretending to lean down to adjust her boot, she waits as the young man passes her and goes on to another apartment down the hall. Straightening, she heads to Commander Spock's door, the first one on the left.
The pebbly-textured glass insert is dark, but that doesn't mean that the Commander isn't there. Pulling her hand into a fist, she raps on the door twice.
"Commander?"
She raps again and presses her ear to the door.
If he's here, he's either unwilling or unable to answer.
Pulling her comm from her pocket, she dials his number again.
"Commander?" she says louder at the door. "Commander Spock?"
As she slips her comm back into her pocket, she feels something slippery and folded and she pulls it out: a piece of old-fashioned wood fiber paper, covered with Vulcan Golic script. A week ago she'd asked the Commander the difference between the formal and familiar words for clan and family and he'd opened the little notepad he carried, a surprisingly anachronistic way of keeping records, and torn off a sheet of paper after jotting down the words.
She's had it in her pocket ever since, a talisman of sorts.
With her other and she rifles through her pocket and fishes out an ink stylus. Flipping over the paper, she presses it against the wall and writes.
Please let me know that you are okay.
Ripping the paper in two, she folds the half containing her note and slides it into the mail slot. There. Wherever he is, when he gets back, he'll let her know and she can stop worrying.
In the meantime, she worries overtime. Walking back across the campus to her dorm, she tries to beat back images of an unconscious Commander Spock in a hospital bed, a gash in his head, his arm bent in an unnatural angle. Ridiculous! she tells herself, but by the time she's in her room, she's called the two closest hospitals and asked if they've admitted any Vulcans in the aftermath of the quake.
That night she sleeps uneasily, tensing up whenever a hovercraft rumbles by. Once when she wakes with a start, Gaila snoring softly from across the room, Nyota checks her comm for messages.
The next day is spent dealing with unexpected power fluctuations. In the middle of her morning shower, the lights go off and the water starts to chill. In a few minutes everything seems normal—until two hours later when everything goes dark again.
Nyota spends the afternoon dialing her mother's home before she's finally able to reassure her that she's unhurt. By evening, her comm voice mail is partially restored and she listens to a dozen belated messages, impatiently pumping her knee while well-meaning friends and family express their concern.
Nothing from Commander Spock.
Where are you? I can't find you!
She lets her finger hover over the note she's tapped out on her PADD. Too personal. Too…frantic. She tweaks it.
Where are you? No one can find you.
She reads her edited version, the personal equation muted, the missing exclamation point less frantic—and less honest.
"Maybe he's out of town. Lots of people left for the holiday break," Gaila says the next morning when Nyota checks her voice mail for the umpteenth time during breakfast. That she's so transparent—that despite not mentioning Commander Spock by name Gaila knows what she's up to—rattles her slightly.
"Maybe," she says, dipping her spoon into her oatmeal and taking an indifferent bite. For some reason she's had little appetite since the quake, as if she's been shaken in more ways than one.
Which, of course, she has been.
She's sitting propped in the dorm basement waiting on her laundry to dry when the rest of her delayed comm messages come through and she sees Commander Spock's number at last.
And not just once, but repeatedly. Scrolling down, she counts 17 missed phone calls. The relay tag shows the calls were routed from Vulcan. Gaila was right. He's gone off-planet for the break. Nyota's so relieved she laughs out loud.
"Finally!" she says, searching the voice mails. Surely when he couldn't reach her comm he left a message.
But no. Not a single voice mail from him. In the list she recognizes the prefix code from the survey ship her father's currently serving on; another is from a friend in New York, so the voice mail is working. If Commander Spock wanted to leave a message, he could have. Instead, he dialed her number 17 times and hung up.
Nor has he sent a note to her email. Not one word.
Despite her relief, she's stung that he hasn't bothered to go a step further to communicate. Feeling her face flush, she suddenly understands why. More than once recently they've gotten crossways over messages gone awry. He's undoubtedly skittish about the written word, preferring to talk to her directly to avoid confusion.
The written word is more permanent, more serious, more intimate, etched like a name on a stone monument—with an implied commitment and intensity that he doesn't intend.
And never will. No matter what she wants to believe.
X X X X
The traffic over San Francisco airspace is stacked so long that by the time his shuttle lands, Spock knows it is too late to contact Cadet Uhura to let her know he is safely home. Doing so would be redundant anyway. She has his travel plans—he made sure to call her earlier with his scheduled arrival time.
The first time they'd spoken after being out of contact for four days he was still at his parents' home on Vulcan, but even over the subspace he could tell that she was furious…and paradoxically joyful. He'd asked his mother about that contradictory emotional response and she'd just laughed and squeezed his arm, something she did whenever she thought he wouldn't object.
"I was worried sick!" Nyota said during that call. "The worst part was not knowing where you were, or if you were hurt. You should have told me that you were going to Vulcan! Then I wouldn't have worried!"
And then her voice softened and she added, "Please don't do that again. I need to know…if you are safe."
He'd called her a second time on the shuttle ride back to Earth, this time to suggest they share a meal together soon. It was an impulsive request, unlike him in every way. Even now as he disembarks the shuttle and queues up for the bus ride to his apartment, he has a vague, uneasy sense that he's not thinking clearly, that since before his trip to Vulcan his thoughts have been cloudy and unfocused.
Or too focused on Cadet Uhura.
At least he no longer has the distraction of T'Pring. If nothing else, the trip home has tied up that loose end. The annulment was swift—the healer's fingers pressed to Spock's temple and T'Pring's cheek, her words severing the bond like a quiet bell tolling across a vast distance. When it was over he'd felt nothing—not sorrow or regret or even pleasure, and that lack of emotion was, in itself, a relief.
Once he's back at his apartment, Spock slings his duffel over his shoulder and keys in the entry password. Several of his neighbors are in the hall when he pushes open the door but no one speaks to him—not a surprise, since he doesn't know them personally. Without conscious effort he contrasts that to the times he's walked with Cadet Uhura on campus, dozens of students hailing her by name, their hands lifted in greeting when she passes, their faces showing not only recognition but pleasure in her company.
As soon as he opens his door he sees the piece of paper in the mail slot—and a moment after that he recognizes it as his own, written eight days ago during a discussion about Vulcan synonyms.
"I can't figure out the difference between clan and family in this passage," Cadet Uhura had told him, holding up her PADD with a page from her xenobiology textbook. "The author says that the Vulcan words are almost identical—with the operative word almost."
She looked at him and he realized he had not been listening as attentively as he needed to—that he had, in fact, been looking closely at a spring of Cadet Uhura's hair on the nape of her neck. Blinking, he met her gaze and said, "As you surmise, the connotations are different."
"Clans are larger," Cadet Uhura said. "Your extended family and your immediate family."
"Not entirely true." Spock warmed to the task of explaining the difference. "A clan is a biological designation—and yes, it does usually include what humans would consider both close and distant blood relatives. The Vulcan word for family, by contrast, is a legal definition that includes those we choose to associate with."
"So someone can be family without being a member of your clan?"
"Precisely," Spock said. "Marriage partners, for example, retain allegiance to their biological clans but are members of each other's family. That connection is expressed this way—"
He'd taken out a pocketsize notebook he carried, something he's done since he was a boy, his first one a gift from his cousin Chris when they'd drawn pictures of the beetles they caught in the backyard in Seattle. With his stylus he'd written out the words for clan and family—exaggerating the downward stroke to illustrate the difference.
"See," he said, tipping the page so Cadet Uhura could examine it closely. She leaned forward, her breath warm on his hand.
"I can't tell—" she began, and with a tug, he pulled the paper from the sheaf and handed it to her.
An innocent enough moment—except that he let his fingertip touch her palm, something he never would have done if he were thinking clearly. To his horror a connection flared briefly—her mind like a kaleidoscope of colors and noise—and he jerked away, careful not to meet her startled glance.
Now he turns over the paper and sees that she's written a message there.
Please let me know that you are okay.
Nothing of the frantic worry he'd heard in her voice mails. Not even the barely contained anger he'd sensed when he'd finally spoken to her by comm. Deciphering human tone of voice and intonation has always been a challenge. More than once he and his father have found themselves accidental allies when his mother's words baffled them both. Perhaps Spock misinterpreted Cadet Uhura's meaning after all, assigning more emotion than was there?
The coolness of the note in his hand makes him pause. And the earlier note she'd sent? The first one after the quake?
I hope you weren't hurt in the quake. The lab has some damage, but your office looks okay. Let me know if I need to do anything.
Nothing except a warranted request for information. A logical one at that, what a teaching assistant would need to know to organize her work schedule.
Please let me know that you are okay.
He holds the torn piece of paper in his palm, the words bare and clear.
The spoken word is ephemeral, apt to be misunderstood. This—this simple piece of paper—speaks a truer message. He feels a pang in his side, as if the discovery that Cadet Uhura's meaning hides no subtext is a disappointment somehow.
That he'd suggested cooking a meal for her feels like the height of folly now. His face flushes at the thought that he's probably confused her—that their interactions in the future will be awkward.
Tomorrow he'll make it right, will make clear when he sees her in the office that any overtones of something more than friendship were uncalled for, the mistakes of communicating by the spoken word. If he can convince her that everything is the same as before—that their relationship is professional and measured—then all will be well.
How fortunate that he found the note and read its contents before seeing her in person. This way he won't repeat his error of being overly familiar.
And with that thought, he tucks the note into his pocket, turns up the heat in the apartment, makes a cup of tea and settles crosslegged in front of his asenoi, willing his mind to empty, his hand betraying him as his fingers slip into his pocket, the feel of the paper a silent rebuke about things that can never be.
A/N: Thank you, patient readers! I'm afraid some are dropping away because of tardy updates. Hopefully the pace will improve soon!
Spock's quick trip to Vulcan and his annulment from T'Pring are detailed from his POV in "Slips of the Tongue." I realized as I was organizing this chapter that I had never told the earthquake story from Nyota's POV—which is why she has more to say this time.
As always, thank you for taking the time to read…and double thanks for taking the time to leave a review.