Chapter Three: Wishes and Lies
Disclaimer: I love 'em like they're mine, but, alas, these characters don't belong to me.
Be careful what you wish for.
A thoroughly human sentiment, a cautionary tale that has little relevance for Vulcans.
The first time he heard his mother say it, Spock pointed this out.
"Desiring something without considering the consequences would be illogical," he said. "I have given this due diligence."
From across the table his cousin Rachel guffawed. At five, she was a year younger and therefore less experienced than he was, so Spock dismissed her laughter. More worrying was the response of his older cousins, Anna and Chris, who sent some signal to each other with their eyes.
Amanda lifted one eyebrow—a habit she had picked up from his father?—and nodded to her sister Cecila who stood near the kitchen table, a carton of ice cream in her hand.
"Are you sure?" his aunt Cecila asked. "I've cut up some fresh pineapple for you instead."
Spock looked at the bowls of ice cream sitting before everyone else at the table. He nodded.
Shrugging, Cecilia plopped a scoop of ice cream in his bowl.
Cautiously, Spock leaned forward and picked up his spoon. Already the white knob of ice cream had started to melt, a sheen of liquid puddling in the bottom of the bowl. Touching the edge of his spoon to the scoop, he pressed slightly and was surprised at the initial resistance and then the sudden give. He lifted his spoon and looked up. Everyone was watching him.
The ice cream was shockingly cold. It was also so sweet, so cloying, that his first instinct was to spit it out. One glance at his mother was enough to force him to swallow instead. He felt his stomach lurch in rebellion.
Rachel burst out laughing again—which could only mean that he had let his distaste show. His face flushed with embarrassment.
"See," his mother said, "I warned you."
But everyone else likes it—he thought across their bond. And then, without being able to stop himself, he let her feel his wordless frustration at always being apart, of being different.
The next time his mother warned him to be careful what you wish for, he was months away from his kahs-wan—eager to face the challenges but scared, too, with a low-level anxiety that sometimes bloomed into real terror when he overheard tales the older boys at school told—stories about le-matya attacks, or desert flash floods. When he told his father that he was being excluded from the advanced physical training classes, he felt Sarek's anger and was relieved when he confronted the headmaster.
The night after Spock's first suus mahna class, his mother lingered at his bedside, brushing his hair back from his forehead, visibly wincing at the bruise already darkening his brow. Through her fingers he felt her sorrow—and yes, her worry for him, her reluctance to allow him to undertake the kahs-wan at all. How could he reassure her that far from being distressed about the difficulty of the class, he was grateful for it, sure that the odds of his survival were increasing exponentially with every blow he learned to parry?
"I want this," he said simply, knowing that his mother would see through his words to the complexity of things—his willingness to endure the training, his determination to undergo the kahs-wan, his need to fit in, or rather, not to be so obviously different.
His mother never said the words again. She didn't need to. He carries them with him, the way humans speak of hearing the voice of a conscience.
Be careful what you wish for.
He knows now what he didn't know at six, at seven, that no one can anticipate every consequence.
That sometimes what seems desirable turns into a peculiar form of agony.
Like now.
In some ways, his biolinguistics class is satisfying, eight students genuinely interested in the topic—a departure from the large introductory xenolinguistics classes he has been teaching in the language department.
But it is a misery, too.
Eight students sitting around a conference table once a week, discussing in detail a wide range of topics, debating the finer points of the intersection of biology and language, up close, personal.
Eight students including her.
What did he expect? He is, after all, the one who volunteered to write the curriculum, to teach the class.
Now he both dreads and looks forward to every Wednesday afternoon, energized by the intellect and energy of his students, wearied by the necessity of controlling every thought, of keeping his expression neutral, of being—as he should be—the consummate instructor.
As she does every Wednesday, Cadet Uhura arrives first, setting her backpack carefully on the floor against the wall before unzipping it to remove her PADD. Sometimes J.C. Ellison is with her, though more often now they arrive separately. An indication of some distance in their relationship? In class they still seem friendly with each other, with an easy camaraderie that Spock meditates about in the evenings, cross-legged in front of his asenoi.
"Look what I found," she says, slipping into a seat next to where he sits at the head of the table. She tilts her PADD toward him, scrolling with her thumb until he can see a page of a news update. "Here," she says, and careful to avoid her fingertips, he takes the PADD from her and scans it.
It concerns the recent aOpli application for Federation membership, detailing the admission council's difficulty communicating with them. Handing the PADD back, he notices her trying to catch his eye and he pauses.
"Maybe they need to call in your mother to help," she says, grinning.
Fortunately another student arrives then, the bustle and noise sparing him from having to reply.
Once all the students arrive the class begins. Today one of the seniors presents the available research on the inability of some species to lie or be deceptive. An issue of language, or an artifact of biology? The students debate with an enthusiasm that makes their words sound heated at times.
"If your language has no metaphors, no abstractions, then of course you won't be able to lie," J. C. says. "After all, you have to be able to imagine something other than the truth, something different from reality, in order to create a lie."
"But their language is limited by their biological abilities," another student adds, and sensing that J.C. wants to respond, Spock waits to weigh in.
"I'm not saying that isn't true," J.C. says. "After all, even on Earth, humans are the only animals with the brain capacity for language."
"What about the great apes?" Uhura pipes up, and J.C. turns to her and says, "Only when they've been coached, and even then, the jury is still out on whether or not they understand what they are communicating."
"Bees," Uhura says, and Spock hears J.C. expel a breath.
Exasperation?
"Being able to waggle around and somehow give directions from the hive to a honey source isn't language as we know it," J.C. says.
"As we know it," Uhura says, patting one hand on the table like an exclamation point. "But by any definition, they are able to communicate."
Someone chuckles and Uhura continues.
"Besides, you're missing the point. Some of you are arguing that the ability to lie is the result of sufficient brain power. Some of you are arguing that the ability to lie is the result of a rich, complex language. Either way, you are suggesting that those species that either do not or cannot lie are somehow deficient. That they lack complex brains or complex language. What about Vulcans? They can't lie, but would you argue that they are less capable than humans in their ability to think or express themselves?"
She directs her gaze around the room at her classmates, ending up looking directly at Spock.
With a jolt, he realizes that she expects him to respond.
"Vulcans do not lie," he says slowly, and from the corner of his eye he sees Uhura nod at J. C. "But that does not preclude their being able to, should the need arise."
"Oh!" she says, a note of embarrassment in her voice. He's not surprised. He's heard more than one person allude to the presumed honesty of Vulcans, including Vulcans themselves.
"But," he adds, "it would have to be an unusual circumstance, and only when logic dictates no other course."
"So," Uhura says, "for instance, a human might lie about forgetting someone's birthday, but a Vulcan wouldn't."
"A Vulcan would not forget someone's birthday."
"That was just an example," she says, darting her eyes in his direction. "What would a Vulcan lie about? Or when? You said it would have to be an unusual circumstance."
The other students are listening to the exchange with odd expressions on their faces. Spock considers his next words carefully.
"To protect someone's life," he says, "or to insure someone's safety. He might lie then."
"Only then? Captured by pirates, maybe," Uhura says, laughing. "He might lie to avoid walking the plank."
"Precisely," Spock says. "Or to prevent someone else from having to walk it."
"Commander," she says, "can't you think of a real example? I'm being serious. I want to know."
"I am being serious, Cadet."
"I see," she says, ducking her head and shooting a look across the table to J.C.
Despite her earlier assertion, ironically she thinks he is lying now. That revelation dawns on him suddenly.
The room becomes unbearably hot.
"Until next week," he says abruptly, startling at least one cadet who glances at her wrist chronometer. The rest of the students begin gathering their materials and scooting their chairs away from the table.
His office is on the third floor, one floor up from the classroom, and once everyone leaves, he takes the stairs two at a time. From the top of the stairwell he sees Cadet Uhura standing outside his office door. For a fraction of a second he considers retreating, but she looks up and sees him before he can.
"Commander," she says when he draws near, "I wanted to apologize."
Tilting his head at her, he reaches to the door and unlocks it, pushing it open and waiting for her to enter the office first. She slips easily into the seat at the side of his desk, and after adjusting the temperature controls on the wall, he slides out his chair and sits.
"Explain," he says, lacing his fingers together.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you in class," she says. She glances up briefly, as if to judge whether to continue. "I didn't mean to sound like I doubted what you were saying. It's just…well, I've always heard—"
Her words grind to a halt and she looks away. He realizes he is giving her what his mother calls the look, the kind of scrutiny that crosses the line from intense to intrusive. With an effort, he blinks and shifts his expression.
"Your confusion is understandable," he says. "And embarrassment is a human emotion."
What he does not say—allowing her to believe otherwise—is that Vulcans share that human sense of shame, that same desire to avoid public loss of face. If they appear imperturbable to others, they recognize the telltale flush of wounded pride in each other.
As if she can read his mind, she meets his eyes and grins.
Didn't he turn down the temperature controls when he entered the room? The room is so warm that he is tempted to run his finger around the inside of his collar.
"I hate stereotypes," she says, leaning forward so that her ponytail swings over her shoulder. That tiny motion stirs the air with her scent: soap and something mildly floral. "I guess I'm the one who's embarrassed, for not even questioning what I've always heard."
The heat has dried his mouth and he is forced to swallow—twice—before venturing an answer.
"As I said, your confusion is understandable. As a rule, Vulcans do not lie."
"Except when threatened by pirates," she says, her tone mock serious, her face lit with a smile. He unlaces his fingers and relaxes his shoulders.
Be careful what you wish for.
He silences his mother's warning. What harm can a friendly conversation do?
"Especially when threatened by pirates," he says, a note of teasing slipping into his words. "As you will see."
X X X X X X X
Be careful what you wish for.
Amanda pulled the thin blanket up over her shoulder and curled her arm under her head. How typical for a Vulcan transport ship to have such poor accommodations—a travel cabin with a hard, pillowless bunk for a bed, a meal area too cramped for socializing.
In the dim light of the small cabin she could see Spock sitting cross-legged on the floor reading a palm-sized PADD. At nine years old he was taller than many other boys his age yet slighter in build, holding himself with the self-conscious posture of someone who knew he was being observed.
For three days they had shared the uncomfortable quarters in the Vulcan cruiser, Amanda already regretting her decision to come.
What had she been thinking when she told Sarek that her life was too routine, that the predictability was beginning to wear on her?
That when he was away on a long diplomatic junket, she missed his physical presence—an idea that both amused him and made their bond quietly thrum?
That Spock needed a break, too, from the constant vigilance that defined his life at school?
Now here they were, between Vulcan and the remote outpost where Sarek had been stationed for 62 days already, he and his staff charged with finding a settlement between Vulcan miners and pirates from a nearby sister planet.
Until a few years ago, the mining outpost had been a profitable, efficient business run by a Vulcan trade syndicate specializing in rare metals and minerals. A series of droughts on the sister planet, Gnia, correlated to an uptick in piracy—the desperate Gnians commandeering vessels leaving the mining outpost and selling the cargo to interstellar traffickers.
Establishing communications with the pirates had proven a challenge, but Sarek managed to convince two of the major players to discuss a trade of sorts—economic and agricultural aid from Vulcan in exchange for a cessation of the attacks.
"Another month," Sarek had predicted when Amanda asked how much longer he would be away. "Now that the attacks have stopped, we are progressing more quickly."
"That doesn't sound quick to me!" Amanda complained. "I have half a mind to hop on the next transport and come there!"
She had been teasing when she said it, expressing her longing to see him rather than actually sketching out a plan of action, but when Sarek nodded and said, "Do," she took that as all the encouragement she needed.
They would be together soon! The excitement of travel, the pleasure of a reunion. She booked the first available transport.
The trip from Vulcan couldn't have been more routine—nor Sarek any more remote, so busy that when Amanda dipped her toe into the steady stream of his thoughts through their bond, she backed away, careful not to bother him.
Even Spock seemed restless on the ship. More than once Amanda nagged him to leave their cabin, to talk to some of the other children onboard. As far as she could tell, the ship was carrying more than twenty passengers, almost all of them Vulcan women with their children, presumably the families of the miners on the outpost. At least two of the boys appeared to be about Spock's age, but when Amanda questioned him, Spock said he didn't have time to find out.
"You have plenty of time!" Amanda protested. "We're going to be on this transport almost a week!"
But she didn't press him further. No use compounding his loneliness with a failed sense of duty to her wishes.
She shifted on the hard bunk again and closed her eyes. An instant later a thud shook the ship, and then another. She sat up.
From his position on the floor, Spock looked over at her.
"Lights," she said, and the cabin lights flickered once and then went off. Another thud rang through the ship.
"Spock," Amanda said, the urgency in her voice echoing her alarm, and she felt his hand touching her own. "Stay close."
The ship shook hard and Amanda grabbed the edge of her bunk to keep from toppling over. The emergency lights in the hallway came on, leaking a ribbon of light under the cabin door.
In the distance she could hear metal on metal, and then the sound of rushing footsteps. Before she could make her way across the darkened room, she heard shouting in the narrow corridor, and then the cabin door slid open.
In the doorway stood a stocky, gray-skinned alien, backlit and difficult to see, though Amanda realized he was a Gnian, like the group Sarek had been negotiating with for weeks. She recognized the distinctive wrinkled appearance, the short antenna-like projections on his—its?—head, the bipedal stance and two forelimbs from images Sarek had shared with her.
The Gnian made a series of buzzing noises. The PADD in Spock's hand instantly translated the sounds into barely passable Vulcan.
"Exit this area," the Gnian said.
Not moving, Amanda countered, "Who are you?"
"That is not your concern. If you do not comply with my request, you will be eliminated."
Glancing down at Spock, Amanda took his PADD and slipped it into her pocket, put her hand on his back and shepherded him toward the door. The Gnian pirate moved back into the hall and she and Spock followed. Already a crowd was gathering there, the other passengers and crew walking slowly toward the cargo bay.
Inside the large, open bay, six gray-skinned pirates were motioning to the Vulcans to sit on the floor against one wall. One pirate waved a thin black rod in the air. Another was attaching small pieces of metal or plastic on the control console at the far end of the room.
The pirate holding the thin rod gestured to Amanda to move away from the crowd, and she took a single step forward.
"You are not like the others," he said. "We have no need for you."
Once before in her life Amanda had a premonition that she was about to come to serious harm. Late one night she hopped aboard what she thought was a deserted hoverbus for a short ride from the university library to her apartment complex. No sooner had the bus doors whooshed shut behind her and she started down the aisle to a seat than she saw a man crouched near the automatic navigation console. Images of a battered woman came to mind—a picture from a recent news vid—and too late Amanda recalled hearing about an attack on a passenger a few days earlier.
The expression on her face must have given her away. The man stood up and said, "Getting scared?"
Terrified was closer to the truth, but Amanda took a breath and shook her head.
"What do you want?" she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "All I have is a transport card. I don't even carry credits with me. I'm just a university student."
"Shut up," he said, moving more quickly toward her than she could have imagined. She felt his hands circle her wrists and he pulled her roughly off her feet, toppling them both into the nearest seat, his knee pressing her thigh.
She screamed then, or tried to. The man let go of one of her wrists and she saw him swing his arm back to hit her.
The unmanned bus lurched to a stop and the doors whooshed open. The sound of distant laughter, conversation, normal life, drifted in.
Suddenly she was alone on her back in the seat, the man racing down the corridor of the bus. As she pulled herself upright, she caught a glimpse of him shoving his way past the group of teenagers getting on.
"Hey!" one of the teens protested, but the man was already gone.
A close call, and one that made her leery of hoverbuses for a long time.
Now here she was facing someone who might as well have asked the same mocking phrase: Getting scared?
"You do need me," she improvised. "I'm the only one here who can help you."
Her words gave the Gnian pause. He lowered the rod and said, "Explain."
From behind her, Amanda felt Spock inching closer.
Don't! she thought, and he stopped.
"Are you the leader of this group?" she asked. "My words are only for your leader."
By this time she had attracted the attention of the other Gnians. The one who had been attaching something to the control console spoke.
"Say your words to me, then. But be quick about it."
"You are the leader?"
"I am the ja'al."
"You are in charge of this group?"
"I am the story keeper. If you have words, tell them to me. Otherwise, you are not needed."
Again the short hairs on the back of Amanda's neck rose. She had to tread carefully here.
"I am the…story keeper…for this group," she said, waving her hand to the Vulcans sitting behind her. They were watching her closely, quietly. One mother cradled an infant in the crook of her arm. A toddler leaned heavily, sleepily, against the shoulder of an elderly white-haired woman. Spock still stood a few meters away.
"That is why you are different?"
"Yes," Amanda said. "I am not from Vulcan but from Earth."
"I do not know of Earth."
"It is very far from here," she said. "I have lived on Vulcan for many years."
From the corner of her eye, Amanda saw one of the Gnians shift his position. Uneasiness? Impatience? She had to hurry up.
"You are from Gnia," she said. A statement only, and the pirates didn't answer. She hadn't expected them to. From what Sarek had told her, part of the difficulty of communicating with the Gnians originated in the structure of their language.
"You would find it poetic," he said, "but to me it is excessively florid."
"You mean you straight-talking Vulcans are getting a headache wading through so many symbols."
"And metaphors," Sarek added, ignoring her tweak at his expense. "The inhabitants use narratives to communicate. Quite inefficient. And, as you said, wearying."
"I have heard a story," she said, looking directly at the pirate, noticing for the first time his small black eyes like glass buttons or like the eyes of sharks back on Earth. She gave an involuntary shiver. "It is about how the Vulcan people sent shipments of food and plants to replace the crops that were lost in the recent droughts on your planet."
To her astonishment, the Gnian waved his forelimbs in an unmistakable gesture of impatience.
"That story will not come to pass! The ja'al who told it to you is not the true ja'al."
For a moment Amanda was buffaloed, not sure what to say next.
"Then tell me the true story," she said, holding her breath.
"The true story is that the Gnian people are dying! Each year our young ones die before reaching the age of motion. The land lies fallow without moisture. The clans attack each other and steal the stores of grain, and they send their young warriors into the skies in search of sustenance.
"The Vulcans sent their ja'al to trick us into submission, and some of the clans listened to their soft words and gave up their weapons. But the clan of Saah chose another path. The ja'al of the clan chose twelve of the best warriors and gave us his finest cruiser. He told us to forget the ships carrying metals and to capture the ones carrying what the Vulcans value most. Then they will give us what we need to bring life back to our world."
"So that's why you attacked us? You are going to hold us for ransom?" Amanda asked.
Instead of answering, the Gnian waved his limbs in the air again and Amanda felt Spock's immediate alarm.
"No!" she shouted, turning toward him, watching him fall to floor as if he were a puppet with the strings cut. Behind him, the Vulcans sitting on the floor slumped to the left and right, unconscious.
"What are you doing?" she cried out, but she already knew. For the first time in years she was alone in her own mind, the steady presence of Sarek gone, the intense connection to Spock like a light snuffed out.
And then she felt herself falling, and breaking her descent with one hand, she slid until her cheek hit the cold floor, her eyes closing of their own accord.
She woke hours later in one of the passenger cabins, her mind still silent.
Where are you? she called out, but her thoughts bumped up into a wall, almost like a physical barrier.
"Tell me your story," she heard a voice say. Sitting up quickly, Amanda pressed a hand to her head.
"What have you done with the others?" she asked, peering at the Gnian pirate who stood near the cabin door. "Where is my son?"
The Gnian moved his head from side to side. Frustrated, Amanda pulled Spock's PADD from her pocket and tapped the screen. The pirate moved his head again.
"I don't understand what you mean," Amanda said, "and my translator doesn't either. Please speak. Where is my son?"
"Tell me your story," the Gnian said. Amanda huffed.
"First I must know about the others. Are they safe? Where are they?"
The Gnian said nothing and Amanda tried again.
"The passengers? Are they in the cargo bay?"
Still nothing.
"Once," Amanda said, "a group of Gnian…warrriors…boarded a civilian transport and took the passengers to the cargo bay. They used some sort of dampening device to contain the telepathic abilities of the Vulcans. One of the passengers was a human from Earth. When she awoke, she asked the warrior to tell her of the other passengers."
"The others wait their destinies," the Gnian said. "Our ja'al has contacted the ja'al of the Vulcans. If they agree, the passengers will be traded for goods and services to free my world from starvation."
"The Vulcans will not negotiate with pirates who have taken hostages," Amanda said quickly. "The Vulcan…ja'al…will give you the goods and services you need, but not in exchange for the passengers."
"This is not a true story. No one gives without a trade."
"It is a true story. I know the ja'al of the Vulcans. He does not lie."
"All men lie. False stories are as plentiful as true. Only a ja'al can discern the difference."
"Are you a ja'al?"
"My ja'al attends to other business," the Gnian said, and Amanda had the definite sense that he shrugged with indifference or resentment.
"If the ja'al is the only one who can tell the difference between lies and truth—between true stories and false—then how can you say my story is false if you are not the ja'al?"
For a moment she was sure she had gone too far. The Gnian grew very still and she felt his unblinking snakelike eyes on her.
"Come with me," he said abruptly, backing out the cabin door. Amanda slid off the bunk and hurried after him.
She had never been on the bridge of the Vulcan transport and was taken aback at how cramped and dirty it seemed. Two Gnian pirates stood at what she assumed were the navigation and helm controls. The Gnian she had spoken to earlier in the cargo bay sat in the captain's chair. He swiveled his thick neck and turned his gaze on her.
"Tell your story," he said.
"As I told this…warrior," Amanda said, indicating the Gnian beside her, "the Vulcans will not pay a ransom for the passengers. They do not deal with hostage-takers. Your plan will fail."
The other Gnians on the bridge were watching, Amanda noticed. The Gnian in the captain's chair said, "This story is true. So they have said."
"You've heard from the Vulcans?"
"It is as you say. They will not trade."
"Then you must let us go," Amanda said, trying to sound reasonable. "The Vulcans will help your world—"
"The passengers are of no use to us," the ja'al said. "We will eliminate them and sell this transport."
"What do you mean, eliminate them? You aren't going to harm them!"
"They are of no use. If we return them, the Vulcan ja'al will tell the other clans that we are weak."
"The Vulcans will help you!"
"The Vulcans are weak. The weak cannot help us."
Amanda crossed her arms.
"Why do you say that the Vulcans are weak?"
Around her, the Gnians who had been following the conversation turned back to their stations. The captain flicked his eyes away. She was being dismissed.
"Take her to the cargo bay," the captain said. "Eject them all."
The pirate who had brought her to the bridge lifted a black rod into the air and took a move toward her.
"Wait!" she cried out. "I want to hear your story of the Vulcans! My story differs from yours. It may be that I do not know the true one."
"Tell that again," the captain said, and Amanda uncrossed her arms and moved closer to him, away from the Gnian with the rod.
"I have lived for many years with the Vulcans," she said, "but I do not know the story you tell about them. I will trade my story for yours. You may find a way to profit from the information."
Running one forelimb across the antennae on his head, the captain made an odd buzzing that the universal translator in her pocket didn't interpret.
"Very well," he said. The Gnian with the rod lowered it. The crew members turned around again, their eyes glittering in the overhead light.
When the ja'al speaks, everyone listens, Amanda thought.
"Many years ago the miners came to our sister world," the captain began. "That was back in the time of life and beauty, before the rains stopped. We had no need to leave Gnia then, for she was like a mother who provided us with all that we could desire.
"From afar we watched the miners, the Vulcans, and saw that they were a strange people, always working in the ground. We monitored the words they sent to other places and learned that they are weak, that they have no warriors, that their rulers govern with words only. They tell no stories but speak to the surface of things. They were no threat to us, and we left them to their peace.
"But when Gnia sickened and began to die, we did as all warriors should do. We cared for our clans by taking from the weak. The Vulcan ships were taken and the cargo sold. Eventually the Vulcans launched fewer and fewer ships, until there were not enough for all the clans.
"The Vulcans did not fight as true warriors do but sent false ja'als to tell us lies. Some clans believed the lies, but the clan of Saah would not be tricked. That is why we took the ship with the Vulcan pair-bonds and small ones, hoping to trade for the things our clan needs to survive.
"If the Vulcans cared for their own people, they would trade for them, but they are too weak. They are willing to lose you, to lose this ship, rather than help us."
As the Gnian captain spoke, Amanda's mind was racing. If she could only talk to Sarek! Surely he could convince the captain that the offer of economic aid was genuine, that returning the passengers unharmed was in the best interest of everyone.
"Now I will tell you my story," Amanda said slowly. "The Vulcans do care for their people, as you do—"
A rustle traveled around the bridge, like a wave. Although she couldn't read their facial expressions, Amanda was certain that her words met with disapproval among her listeners. Clearly the Gnians didn't like hearing their ja'al contradicted. Perhaps she needed to rethink her approach.
She started again.
"As you see, I am not like them. You were right when you said that their words are not like yours, that where you tell stories, they speak only of things, of facts."
She paused and gauged her reception. The Gnians watched her closely. Good. At least they were paying attention.
"That is why they have made me their one true ja'al. I am the story keeper for the Vulcans. If you want to know their true selves, you must ask me."
"If you are the true ja'al," the captain said, "then why are you not the leader?"
"The Vulcans do not value the story keeper as you do," she said. "They keep me in servitude, forcing me to entertain them with tales of their ancestors. If they knew I was telling their story to you, they would kill me."
The Gnians made the same odd buzzing noise that went untranslated.
"This cannot be a true story," the captain said. "They are not warriors."
"You have been deceived," Amanda said, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "To outsiders they appear gentle, peaceful, their words full of logic and reason. But I know the truth about them. On their homeworld they are ruthless fighters. When they go to war, they kill in such large numbers that the victors wade knee deep in the blood of their slain enemies."
She stopped for a moment and swallowed.
"Many years ago a Vulcan warrior came to my world disguised as an ambassador, a man committed to peace. My family believed his lies and relaxed their vigilance. One night he lured me to a transport station and took me captive against my will. He told me that if I did not accept him as a husband, he would retaliate against my family and destroy them all. That is why I live on Vulcan still, why I have been forced to bear him a child."
"Barbaric!" Amanda heard one of the Gnian's hiss.
"The other passengers on this transport are some of his property as well—his wives and children. When he knows that you are responsible for kidnapping his family and stealing his property, he will sweep down upon you like a storm, scorching you and your world with fire and lightning. The other clans will tell tales for generations about the end of the Saah, how you provoked the fearsome retribution of Sarek of Vulcan."
The Gnian captain gave a visible start.
"Sarek," he said. "That is the name. This is a true story."
"Oh, no!" Amanda said, putting her hand to her lips. "He's been in contact with you! He knows!"
"He said he would not negotiate for the release of the passengers," the captain said, and Amanda blew out a loud breath of air.
"Of course he won't! He's already planning his attack. Once you've made a Vulcan mad, there's nothing you can say to change his mind. If you thought he was a man of peace, that's what he wanted you to think. He expects to catch you off guard."
The captain pressed his forelimb on the chair panel and the lighting in the bridge dimmed immediately into emergency mode.
"If he attacks, we will be prepared."
"Believe me," Amanda said, "you won't see him coming. Sarek's attack force will scramble your sensors and render your own weapons useless. Your only hope is to contact him first, to appease him by returning the passengers."
For a moment, the Gnian captain sat motionless. Amanda shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Raise him," the captain said at last, and from the communications console, a high-pitched whine began as the Gnian stationed there turned one button, then another.
On the forward viewscreen, the star field fluttered softly and was replaced by an image of Sarek's face.
"I am the ja'al of the Saah clan," the captain said. "I have your story keeper."
Amanda felt a shove—one of the Gnians pushing her closer to the captain's chair. She watched a cloud pass over Sarek's expression.
"Amanda," he said simply, and she nodded.
"Yes, Sarek," she said. "Spock and I are here with the rest of the passengers."
"Are you harmed?"
"I have not seen the others in a few hours, but I believe everyone is okay."
Seeing Sarek's face without being able to feel him across their bond was disorienting, like being dizzy or lost. She frowned and pressed her hand to her forehead.
"There's some kind of device—" she began, but Sarek interrupted her.
"I surmised as much."
His eyes flicked away to the Gnian and he said, "What do you want?"
"He means," she said quickly to the captain, "how would you prefer to die? Do you want him to blow up your ship? Or do you want to face death honorably, with an execution?"
She glanced up at the viewscreen and noted Sarek's raised eyebrow.
The Gnian's eyes were on her. She said, "If you will permit me, I may be able to help you."
The captain leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"How do I know you won't tell him to destroy us immediately? Why should I trust you? You are his property, his ja'al."
Amanda paused as if thinking.
"You have no choice. Sarek has his own fleet of ships, many which are probably on their way here right now."
The captain leaned back. Amanda turned toward the viewscreen.
"Sarek," she said, "don't try to lie anymore. The Gnians know that I am your story keeper, that I have told them your true story."
"My true story?"
"How you took me against my will from my home years ago and threatened my family."
"Indeed."
"And how in battle you are fierce and merciless, how you have killed many enemies with your cloaked ships."
"You told them that?"
"And how even now you are planning the destruction of the clan that kidnapped your servants and your wives."
"My wives?"
"I know you are not known for your tender mercies," Amanda said, and Sarek frowned—minutely, to be sure, but a definite knitting together of his brows. "Like you, these…warriors…respect strength above all else. But if you can see your way to spare them, your property and family will go unharmed."
"Our sloop is tethered to this transport," the captain said. "We will vacate this ship if you allow us safe conduct."
"Is that so much to ask?" Amanda said, folding her hands together like a supplicant.
"Amanda, I don't know—"
"Sarek! I beg you! Take out your anger on me, if you must, for revealing your true self to these people, but let them go! Please?"
They hadn't always been bonded. Surely he could read her, could understand what she was communicating with her eyes, her pursed lips. She tipped her head to the side and said, "Please?"
"Since you are my…story keeper," he said, the slightest hesitation in his voice, "I will do as you ask."
Then to the captain he said, "Reverse the dampening field and leave the transport immediately. If no one is harmed, I will not…retaliate."
The captain let his forelimb slice through the air like a knife and the transmission ended abruptly. He stood and walked swiftly to the door of the bridge, the other crew following him.
For a moment Amanda stood in place, and then she, too, left the bridge, making her way to the cargo bay where the Vulcans stood waiting, as if they had known she was on the way.
Which in retrospect they might have. As she reached out to unlock the cargo bay door, she felt her vision wobble briefly. There was Sarek in her thoughts again, a rush of relief flooding through them both.
Spock, too, was present in her awareness. When she entered the room, he walked to her immediately. For once he didn't object when she ruffled his hair.
"Remind me to be more careful," she told Sarek a day after the transport finally reached the mining outpost. They were lying facing each other on a narrow bed in the tiny room that passed for their quarters. Spock was out exploring the mining complex—and with a gentle nudge, she encouraged him to stay out for a while longer.
"In what way have you been careless?" Sarek asked, pulling her closer until she had to tip her head back to look up into his face.
"By what I wished for," she said. "Here I was thinking I needed some adventure in my life. From now on I'm going to be content with reading a good book."
"Your capacity for lying is prodigious," Sarek said, running the fingers of his right hand down her arm, sending a shiver up her spine.
"It was necessary," she said, pretending offense. "Even you lied to the pirates."
"It was no lie to say that you are my story keeper," he said, rolling her onto her back. "At any rate, I mean the lie you are telling now. About being content with a book."
She tugged up the hem of his shirt in open invitation.
"I see what you mean," she said.
X X X X X X
Spock takes only a few minutes to tell the story—sketching it out rather than giving much detail—but when he finishes, Cadet Uhura's eyes are shining, her elbows planted on his desk, her chin resting on her open palms.
"I was joking about the pirates," she says in wonder. "What an adventure!"
"The incident lasted less than a day," Spock says. "It hardly qualifies as an adventure."
"If being kidnapped doesn't qualify as excitement enough for you," she says, lowering one arm to his desk, "then I'd like to know what does!"
She catches herself mid-laugh, as if realizing how suggestive her words sound. Her eyes widen and her breath hitches once, twice.
To his astonishment, a wave of heat floods his torso, leaks up and under his collar and slides down his legs, leaving him uncomfortably congested and aroused. His heart hammers so hard that he hears it in his ears.
"Commander, I—"
"Cadet Uhura—"
Their words tangle in an instance, like two notes in a chord. They fall silent at the same moment, and he nods for her to continue.
"I keep taking up your time!" she says with forced cheer.
Reading human expressions has never come easy for him. As well as he knows his mother, he occasionally accepts her words at face value when she wants him to recognize irony, or he confuses her worry with anger, or misses it entirely.
So when Cadet Uhura stands and lingers for a moment beside his desk, he is so busy giving her the look—struggling to parse the meaning of her bottom lip pinched between her teeth and the crease between her brows—that he almost misses her next words.
"I wish—" she says, and he stops breathing.
"I mean," she amends, "thank you. For the story."
As she turns to leave he calls out, "It was nothing," but that is a lie and he knows it. Sharing a story is always something.
A/N: This is a labor of love. Thanks to everyone who reads it…and a special thanks to everyone who takes the trouble to leave a review. Your reviews are loving little breadcrumbs that help other readers find this story and decide whether or not to take a chance on it!