Chapter Four: Hunger
Disclaimer: I own nothing here except the mischief.
As a rule, Spock doesn't eat in the student cafeteria. The noise, the crowd, the unappetizing smells—his reasons are legion, logical. Only rarely does he bother with a midday meal anyway, and when he does, he brings yogurt or salad or leftover soup from his apartment and eats in his office.
But for three days now he's eaten nothing, his refrigerator empty except for some expired kasa juice. Normally he's more careful to keep his pantry stocked, stopping by the local deli across the street from his apartment or making the longer trip into town to a grocery store.
For some reason he's been uncharacteristically distracted this week. Letting his food supply get low. Neglecting to answer mail promptly. Almost missing a department meeting yesterday afternoon.
Undoubtedly the pressures of ending the semester are to blame. Grading the final exams. Waiting to hear about a grant for a proposed summer project. Firing his unsatisfactory student aide. Looking for a replacement.
Anyone would forget to eat.
"You look pale, Commander," his Andorian colleague, Professor Artura, had said as he brewed a cup of tea in the break room earlier. "Perhaps you need something?"
Spock had been ready to deny it, but a wave of lightheadedness forced him to sit at one of the round tables, his hands cupped around his mug of cooling tea.
"I've noticed that you've been fasting," Professor Artura said, sidling into the seat across from Spock. "Is this a Vulcan custom?"
Spock looked closely at the Andorian. Thin like most Andorians, the elderly professor was slightly stooped, his fringe of white hair brushed forward into uneven bangs. When he talked his stubby tentacles bobbled, the way humans moved their hands to communicate.
"I have simply been busy," Spock said, taking a sip of his tea.
"Then perhaps you will join me for lunch?" the professor said. "Since classes are over?"
For a moment Spock considered refusing—but the truth was that he did need to eat something, and the cafeteria—noisy, crowded, smelly—was the closest and fastest place for suitable nourishment. It was…logical.
Now he stands aside as Professor Artura shuffles slowly into the cafeteria ahead of him. As he expects, the noise level is unpleasant, breaking over his ears in waves of buzzing conversations, sudden laughter, the metallic clink of silverware on china, the screech of chair legs skittering against the floor.
The bustle of students at the food lines is almost dizzying. Narrowing his focus, Spock follows Professor Artura to the salad station and picks up a plate.
"At home," the Andorian says as he lifts lettuce to his plate with tongs, "this sort of cuisine is rare. The only places where vegetables can grow are in caverns heated by underground geysers. Clan leaders—the truly wealthy—they can afford it. The rest of us are forced to subsist on animal flesh. As you can imagine, the meat of animals adapted to an ice environment is tough—almost indigestible—"
Fighting a wave of nausea, Spock carries his plate and picks his way across the floor to a relatively empty table. Professor Artura stops to speak to two of his students, and while he does, Spock scans the room.
For her.
It's something he does whenever he is surrounded by students. Walking across the commons. Entering the language lab. Watching a group of cadets speaking animatedly to each other in the entry hall of the administration building.
A quick flick of his eyes—a reflex, nothing more. Cadet Uhura is such an outstanding student—unparalleled, really, in her ability to distinguish subtleties of sound—that his interest in her career is understandable.
"Forgive me, Commander," Professor Artura says, setting his plate on the table and settling into a seat. "My students heard about the protest and wanted to make sure I was unharmed."
Spock pauses, his fork in midair. Protest? Professor Artura's antennae curl down and he frowns.
"You did hear?" the Andorian says. "About the protest outside headquarters yesterday?"
"I have been busy," Spock says, realizing that twice he's explained himself this way today.
"Ah," Professor Artura says, picking up his own fork and spearing some salad, "an unpleasant group of xenophobes. They're upset about the Farriri refugees. Made some noise about it yesterday—waved some signs and yelled a bit. I was coming out of a meeting at HQ at the time and ended up on the vids last night. But you didn't see it. Because you were busy."
The Andorian's characteristic lisp is more pronounced than usual and Spock darts him a glance.
"The last time I spoke to my father," Spock says, "he suggested the possibility that the Farriri situation would generate controversy."
"Yes," Professor Artura says, his antennae waggling. "Asylum seekers always do."
The professor's words so closely echo Sarek's that Spock is startled. When he and his father had spoken a week ago, Sarek went into great detail about a freighter found disabled outside the Farriri star system, the survivors asserting that they were victims of an attack by a cloaked ship from their own government.
On patrol nearby, the Lexington found no evidence to support their claim. Indeed, Starfleet intelligence concluded that the scoring on the hull and the damage to the propulsion system were self-inflicted, though the captain and the more than 130 crew and passengers denied it.
Farrir was not a signatory to the Federation Charter and demanded the refugees be returned. When the authorities on Earth tried to arrange transport back to their home world, the Farriri had refused to go, saying that they were members of a persecuted minority.
In the meantime, the media had a field day with stories and anecdotes and speculation—escalating what should have been an easy legal matter into something much more complex, Spock thought.
And now—apparently—the fledgling anti-alien xenophobes calling themselves Earth United have staged a protest, demanding the refugees be sent home immediately without a hearing. Spock is less surprised than resigned.
Leaning forward, Professor Artura pokes his fork into the air like a pointer.
"It shouldn't be that hard to investigate whether the Farriri really are persecuted on their home world," he says. "The Vulcans have a treaty with Farrir. They could demand access to records."
"You are mistaken," Spock says quickly. "Vulcan has an informal trade alliance, not a treaty."
"I meant no offense, Commander," Professor Artura says, and Spock feels a flicker of annoyance at himself for revealing his irritation. "Whether they have a treaty or a trade alliance makes no difference. The Vulcans are respected as fair and impartial. I was suggesting that both the Farriri government and the refugees would cooperate with them."
The professor is right, of course. The Vulcans do have the reputation for being fair and impartial.
And to his surprise, Spock feels another flicker of annoyance.
"You disagree, Commander?"
Clearly he's not himself today, without adequate control, if Professor Artura can read him this well. He struggles to blank his expression before he answers.
"Vulcan…impartiality…may be overstated."
"Truthfully?" Professor Artura picks up a cherry tomato and eyes it carefully before popping it into his mouth. "Then what everyone thinks about Vulcans is wrong?"
His tone is playful and Spock feels his earlier anger ebb away.
"Ascertaining what everyone thinks about Vulcans is impossible," Spock says drily, one eyebrow raised. "However," he adds, "past experience leads me to doubt that the Vulcans would be the best choice to broker an agreement between refugees and a hostile government."
"Past experience?"
"When I was a child," Spock says, "a group of refugees applied for asylum on Vulcan. My father was involved in the negotiations for quite some time. His efforts were fraught with difficulty."
Pushing his plate back and straightening in his chair, Professor Artura says, "But he was successful, I take it?"
Spock tilts his head and lets his gaze drift.
"That," he says, "depends on how you define success. As I recall, my mother was the one who inspired the solution."
X X X X X
There were no playgrounds on Vulcan.
At least not in the Terran sense of the word—areas set aside for children, ornamented with jungle gyms and sliding boards, swings and climbing walls.
Unlike developing humans, young Vulcans needed less unstructured play—indeed, their free time was often channeled into music or art or chess lessons. The closest thing they had to rough and tumble play was overseen by martial arts instructors.
However, the many public parks—most with walking and hiking trails—served much the same function as playgrounds, offering not only a place for physical exercise but, to Amanda's way of thinking, the more necessary opportunity for social interaction.
The park nearest the Vulcan embassy building in Shi'Kahr, for instance. Not only did it offer a leafy respite from the midday heat, it was a place where many parents and their young children congregated, the parents ambling around the meandering paths or sitting on the recessed stone benches, the children climbing the rock formations or cooling off in one of two shallow streams.
The first few times that Amanda took Spock there, she sat alone while he fished pebbles from the stream, solemnly holding out his wet palm from time to time to show them to her, identifying quartz or shale with a seriousness that made her smile.
At five he was already cautious around other people—either his natural introversion or a reaction to the not-so-subtle comments they heard from time to time when they were in public.
The more reserved Spock became, the more insistent Amanda was that he interact with others—but those interactions drove him further inward. The irony wasn't lost on his mother but she was at a loss to know what to do.
The public park, then, became her proving ground.
Not until the second week after they became regular visitors did Amanda manage to engage another parent in a casual conversation—a father whose twin boys were playing on the bank of the stream.
"How old are your boys?" she asked, and the Vulcan man—taller and thinner than Sarek, with unusual dark blonde hair—looked her over impassively before answering.
"Four years three months fifteen days."
"I don't think I've seen twins before on Vulcan," Amanda said, stepping closer to the stream and looking down where Spock was standing ankle deep in the water. "Do you have other children as well?"
"Twins occur in less than .06% of births," the man said. "I have no other children."
Amanda waited for him to reciprocate—a question about Spock, perhaps—even an intrusive one about his dual heritage, but the man seemed disinterested. With a sigh she walked back to the stone bench and sat down. Almost immediately a Vulcan woman, her head covered with a dark green scarf, sat beside her, a little girl in traditional leggings and a long tunic standing at her knee.
"Hello there," Amanda said to the girl who looked to be about Spock's age, her blue-black hair pulled back into a long braid, her dark eyes large and luminous. With an uneasy glance, Amanda looked up at the mother, half-expecting to be reprimanded for speaking to her daughter without an invitation. Instead she was taken aback by the woman's friendly stare.
"You must be Ambassador Sarek's wife," she said, and Amanda nodded. "I am T'Lina, and my daughter is T'Ana. My husband is one of the contractors working on the embassy renovations—he mentioned seeing you and your son there recently."
Amanda was flabbergasted—not at the idea that she was recognizable, but that T'Lina had approached her. She smiled and said, "Oh, please—call me Amanda. And this is Spock. Spock! Come here!"
Spock chose that moment to do just the kind of thing that got him crossways with Sarek so often. Rather than coming promptly to her—obedient, respectful—he turned into a statue—unmoving, deaf, looking at her with an uncomprehending, unblinking gaze.
"Spock!"
He moved then, lifting one foot and then the other with an exaggerated deliberateness, until he was out of the stream.
On the opposite side.
With a backward glance, he darted up the bank and disappeared into the brush.
"Spock!"
Amanda's voice was tinged with real anger and a large measure of embarrassment. "I'm…sorry!" she said, looking toward T'Lina. "He's…shy. He's usually more—"
But T'Lina did something then so surprising that Amanda would think of that moment often.
"Go call him back," the Vulcan woman said softly to her daughter, and T'Ana dashed forward, splashing across the little stream and plunging into the shrubbery on the opposite bank.
T'Lina's eyes were smiling, even as her face remained impassive.
In a minute the children returned, T'Ana prattling away in a singsong recitation, Spock's brow furrowed.
"And my father says that the next time there's an electrical storm, I can use his ion scanner to measure the trace elements. My teacher says that when the dust level is high, there are three parts per million of boron and sulfur."
"What is the range of the scanner?" Spock asked, barely looking up at his mother as they came up to the stone bench. "Is it handheld or mounted?"
Before Amanda could scold him, T'Ana continued to talk.
"It is her new obsession," T'Lina said. "A month ago she was collecting insects. Before that she was interested in avian migration patterns. I am uncertain whether I should applaud her wide range of interests or be concerned about her lack of focus."
Before she could stop herself, Amanda burst out laughing. Instead of recoiling from Amanda's outburst, however, T'Lina leaned forward fractionally and blinked slowly, as if sharing a private joke.
Which, of course, she was. Amanda was delighted. She loved Sarek's wit—savored his dry delivery, his restrained wordplay—though she rarely saw evidence of amusement or joking from strangers. Long ago she had stopped looking for it. A loss, she saw now—something she missed more than she realized.
Soon she and T'Lina spent much of their free time together, either at the park or taking the children on other outings. When the weather turned too cool for comfortable outdoor activities, they met at each other's houses, the women taking tea while Spock and T'Ana fashioned a terrarium out of a discarded pot and populated it with sand beetles, or pored over an illustrated book of Norse myths Amanda's sister Cecilia had sent, or once, after Sybok had groused about some calculus homework and had dropped his notebook on the floor before stalking off into the kitchen for a snack, had worked through a particularly thorny problem and presented it to him as a fait accompli, Spock holding Sybok's computer notebook before him like someone offering a tray of delicacies.
"I'd be so lonely without her," Amanda said one evening as she and Sarek sat in the front room after dinner. "And Spock. You wouldn't believe how talkative he is around T'Ana. He's like a whole different child."
To anyone else Sarek would have seemed impassive, even indifferent, to her comments, but Amanda saw a telltale shift in his expression and felt a tension through their bond. Guilt, and sadness. When he spoke she knew what he would say.
"I regret that you have been lonely," he said, holding out his open palm in invitation. "When the current situation at the embassy is resolved—"
Placing her palm in his, Amanda finished his sentence for him.
"When the current situation is resolved—the situation that is taking all your time from your family at the moment—then another situation will arise, and another, and another…until one day you will come home and find that your sons have grown up and moved away. And all you will have left is a very, very old wife waiting on you."
She said it lightly, as a tease, though they both knew that her words held more truth than either was willing to acknowledge.
Blinking once and tilting his head, Sarek continued as if he hadn't been interrupted.
"When the current situation is resolved," he said, "I will be due some time away from work. We could visit your family on Earth then, if you like. Or we could travel somewhere else if you prefer."
"Or stay home and lock the doors," she said, laughing. Threading her fingers through his, she was suddenly serious.
"The current situation is never going to get resolved if the High Council doesn't hurry up. Have they agreed to meet with the refugees yet?"
Sarek let out a breath—as close to a sigh as he ever came—and shook his head.
"When this whole thing started, I believed the High Council would come to a decision quickly. It is not, after all, a difficult matter to sort through. Either the refugees are legally Vulcan and have all the rights and responsibilities of any other citizens, or they aren't."
The current situation consuming so much of Sarek's time concerned a small group of inhabitants of a remote Vulcan mining colony. Settled more than three centuries earlier, the colony had long ago stopped its mining production, the karnite supply tapped out sooner than anyone had anticipated.
Instead of closing the colony and returning to Vulcan, those long ago settlers had turned to subsistence farming and trade with passing freighters to sustain themselves. Over time, they were joined by settlers from other planets—an entire clan of Andorians fleeing a blood feud, a group of Orcian craftsmen looking for land, an entire population of a tiny planet destroyed when their star when nova.
For all intents and purposes the colonists were forgotten by Vulcan, or at least ignored.
Until the colony was almost destroyed by Xaxian marauders—a warlike people who swooped out of the skies one day, destroying much of the colony's infrastructure without explaining any design or purpose to the attacks. Fewer than a thousand settlers managed to escape, most in small sloops that took weeks to make the journey back to Vulcan.
Their reception was less than welcoming. Three centuries ago a few intrepid Vulcan miners had left. Now a hodgepodge group of mixed race people—only a few with Vulcan physical traits—returned, wanting asylum.
The High Council was stymied. The refugees claimed to be Vulcan. They had, after all, lived on a Vulcan colony, one officially chartered and sanctioned by the government. Some were descended from the original settlers. Most claimed to follow Vulcan principles and practices, such as a devotion to logic and a control of emotions.
But after that the similarities broke down. Their history, their culture, their habits were foreign and baffling to the native Vulcans. If they didn't openly shun the refugees, they didn't accept them, either.
People began to debate the merits of allowing them to stay. Better to help them resettle somewhere else, some Vulcans argued, while a minority called for a renewed commitment to infinite diversity in infinite combinations—the cornerstone of Vulcan philosophy.
For many reasons Amanda followed the debates carefully. She became convinced that if the refugees were not allowed to stay—if they were, in effect, judged to be less than full citizens—that her own life, and Spock's, were diminished somehow, that this adopted home world was also rejecting her and her son.
"A fanciful notion," Sarek had told her, but she couldn't shake her foreboding.
"It's not fanciful," she argued. "The question of the refugees goes to the heart of things. What makes someone a Vulcan? Genes? Beliefs? A choice to be a Vulcan? That's a question your own son struggles with every day. Don't you dare dismiss it as a fanciful notion."
Through their bond she felt Sarek stiffen. She pressed her point home.
"That's right," she said. "The refugees have decided that they are Vulcan—by whatever measure they use. Who is the High Council to contradict them?"
Her friendship with T'Lina was an anchor while Sarek was preoccupied with the refugee negotiations. In the long afternoons while Spock and T'Ana explored the back yard or sat quietly side-by-side drawing or reading, the two women talked about the controversy the refugees had unwillingly provoked in Vulcan society.
"I met some of the colonists at the market yesterday," T'Lina said as she helped Amanda weed the vegetable garden in the morning shade. "A family group. The father looked to have some Andorian traits, but the children appeared to be more like their mother. They asked for directions to a healer. One of the children had eaten something that disagreed with her, I believe."
"Did you have any trouble understanding them?" Amanda asked, her attention focused on picking out the weeds from the delicate plomeek shoots. "One of the news vids said that their language was almost unrecognizable."
T'Lina straightened up. "The refugees who spoke to me had a definite accent, but I had no trouble discerning their meaning."
"Then the news vid lied," Amanda said, standing up and leading the way out of the garden to the veranda steps.
"A possibility," T'Lina said. "Though it is also possible that the refugees I met were not typical of the group. Their language skills may be superior—"
"The news vid lied," Amanda repeated. "What are the odds that you just happened to meet the only refugees who speak passable Vulcan?"
"Low," T'Lina said, provoking a mirthless laugh from Amanda.
"Not only that," Amanda said, passing through the kitchen to the sitting room beyond, "the whole issue of language is just another way to paint the refugees as unworthy to be Vulcans. What does it matter if they speak with an accent, or if they speak Vulcan at all? Language doesn't define who we are."
T'Lina settled herself in an overstuffed chair, an indulgence not usually seen in Vulcan homes with their traditional ascetic furniture of straight-backed chairs and functional tables. In one corner Spock and T'Ana were silently constructing a model of some sort from twigs and scraps of paper.
With a sigh, Amanda sat down on the sofa and said, "I don't mean to suggest that language isn't an important part of our culture. It is. Some researchers argue that it shapes how we think—what we can think about."
From the corner of her eye Amanda saw Spock turn and look at her over his shoulder. She felt his curiosity, not just through his obvious attention but through their bond.
"Mother," T'Ana said, "if a human spoke Vulcan all the time, would she be a Vulcan?"
Because Amanda was looking in her direction, she saw what she would have missed otherwise—an unmistakable signal passing between the children, some communication sent with a glance, with a half-sketched gesture.
And suddenly she knew. T'Ana was speaking aloud a question Spock wanted posed but didn't want credit for asking.
Flicking her eyes back to T'Lina, she saw understanding there. So. Both mothers recognized how close the children were, how allied with each other they had become.
"Why do you ask?" T'Lina said, and T'Ana swept her dark, luminous gaze over Spock. Another signal—a nonverbal asking and answering—flickered between them.
"We were wondering," T'Ana said, "if the Lady Amanda thinks as Vulcans do, or does she think like humans?"
"You would need to ask her."
Through her bond Amanda felt Spock squirm.
"I think like a human," Amanda said, "but I believe that I understand how Vulcans think. And yes, it probably helps that I speak Vulcan—and that I live with Vulcans, and that I have a son who is a Vulcan."
She paused and gave a meaningful look in Spock's direction.
"If I learned to speak Standard," T'Ana said, standing up and brushing off the knees of her leggings, "would I understand humans better?"
"Perhaps," Amanda said as the little girl walked to her mother's side and leaned into the arm of the chair. "It couldn't hurt. Did you have any particular humans in mind?"
She arched her eyebrows in mock seriousness and grinned, expecting to hear herself named.
Instead, T'Ana looked back to the corner.
"Spock," she said, and Amanda blinked in surprise.
An awkward silence—until T'Lina said, "You two seem to understand each other very well already."
For the rest of the afternoon, Amanda watched T'Ana and Spock closely and, she hoped, unobtrusively. Sure enough, she noticed how often they started and finished each other's sentences, how one or the other would point or motion and the other would immediately understand what was being asked.
Later that night as she recounted the story for Sarek, he nodded and said, "They do seem unusually compatible." Immediately Amanda recognized the significance of his words. Already Sarek had started making inquiries about suitable bondmates for Spock—a concession Amanda had agreed to reluctantly, and only because she had been convinced it was for Spock's well-being to be bonded in a traditional kal'telan. Most Vulcan males didn't experience pon farr until their third or fourth decades, but early onset—even in adolescence—wasn't unheard of. Spock's dual heritage gave him a genetic wild card—or so his parents worried.
And even if pon farr wasn't an issue, Amanda knew how important her own telepathic bond was with Sarek—how reassuring, how comforting. That Spock would want—would, in fact, need—the same sort of steadying presence of a sympathetic mind made sense to her.
She could imagine the young woman T'Ana would grow to be—bright, affectionate, spirited in a pleasant way. When Sarek had time—if Sarek had time—they would have to broach the idea with T'Lina and her husband.
For a few weeks Amanda was hopeful that the refugee situation was close to a resolution. A prominent ethicist published a paper arguing that the biological origins of the colonists were irrelevant to the discussion of their citizenship. Because the colony had never broken ties with Vulcan, its inhabitants were technically still Vulcan, regardless of where their ancestors had come from.
Then a committee of High Council commissioners staged a public forum to discuss the cultural attributes that defined what it was to be Vulcan. Although some on the panel argued that language and philosophy were critical, others were less sure, leaving any conclusions ambiguous, the fate of the refugees still undecided.
"Sarek's going to appear before a preliminary hearing tomorrow," Amanda said one day in T'Lina's kitchen as they worked on a complicated recipe for stew using a rare vegetable that was in season only a few days a year. From down the hall Amanda could hear the soft murmur of the children as they chatted. "Stovell told him that the mood of the High Council is starting to shift. There's more of a call to help the colonists resettle off planet somewhere."
"Is that what the refugees want?" T'Lina asked as she expertly stripped yellowed leaves from what looked like tough, withered stalks of bamboo.
"No!" Amanda said sharply. She darted a look of apology at T'Lina and added, "The last thing they want is to be moved again. Most of them have found housing, jobs. Their children are in school. When Sarek met with their representative, he said all they want at this point is to be left alone."
"Understandable," T'Lina said agreeably. "Then I hope that the Council listens when Sarek speaks to them."
"I wish more people felt like you do," Amanda said, picking up a handful of chopped stalks and dropping them into a pot of boiling water. "Even Sarek has reservations. We've had more than one argument about it. I had to twist his arm to get him to see how the refugees might feel."
Wiping her hands on her apron, she noticed the same hint of amusement at the corner of T'Lina's eye that had first made her think they could be friends. Another Vulcan might have been shocked at Amanda's confession of arguing with her spouse—might have found her behavior incomprehensible. T'Lina's acceptance—her lack of judgment—was an oasis in an otherwise bleak landscape of relationships.
With a sudden intake of breath, Amanda turned to her and said, "You know, the refugees don't want anything we don't want. A way to make a living, a place where they feel safe. A future for their children. I don't understand why they shouldn't have that chance."
"Nor I," T'Lina said, setting the pot on the cook top. Picking up a kettle, she walked to the large table in the center of the kitchen and refilled two empty cups with tea. Amanda sank into a chair gratefully and took a sip.
A sudden thump, a scrape of furniture across the floor, from down the hall.
I am unharmed, she felt Spock say, and she and T'Lina made eye contact at the same time. Another hint of humor in T'Lina's face. Amanda smiled broadly for them both.
"At least they are having a good time," Amanda said.
"They always seem to enjoy each other's company."
Amanda took another sip of her tea and considered what to say next.
"Have you," she said slowly, "already made arrangements for T'Ana's future?"
"Clarify."
"A bondmate. Have you and Senek chosen someone for her? She's almost six, isn't she? Forgive me for being nosey—it's just, well, I thought you might have started to give some thought to it."
"Senek has several contacts," T'Lina said, her forefinger looped through the handle of her tea cup. "But we have a year before we have to decide."
"Yes," Amanda agreed. "Sarek and I have started to talk, too. It's…daunting…to make that sort of decision for your child. At least, it feels that way to me."
"Indeed," T'Lina said. "I was not aware that you wished to have Spock bonded."
"It seems…logical," Amanda said with a little laugh. "After all, he is a Vulcan."
"A pity he is also human," T'Lina said. "That limits your options considerably."
Amanda's mouth was instantly dry, the taste of tea bitter on her tongue.
"What do you mean?" she managed to say at last, and T'Lina said, "There are so few humans on Vulcan. Or perhaps you plan to look for a bondmate on Earth?"
Like watching a house of cards tumble down, Amanda felt her stomach drop.
For a moment she sat completely still, her face flushed, her eyes hot. She didn't dare blink.
"Actually," she finally said, "we are hoping to bond him with another Vulcan."
An unmistakable look of surprise crossed T'Lina's features. Ah. A separation had been there all along. Amanda felt her heart give another lurch.
"You disapprove of cross species relations," she said simply, a statement of fact. Even as she said it, she hoped T'Lina would protest otherwise, that she would somehow explain what she had meant earlier, that her comment could be seen in a different, more innocuous, light.
"Certainly not," T'Lina said. "In many cases—such as the refugees, or when Vulcans are stationed far from home, as when Sarek was on Earth—they are necessary."
Amanda steadied her hand on the table and took a breath. T'Lina continued.
"Naturally, such unions are not optimal. Surely you agree."
To Amanda's embarrassment, her vision blurred and her hand shook slightly.
"Thank you for the tea," she said at last, standing up slowly. "Spock, come here. We have to go."
"The stew?" T'Lina said, gesturing toward the bubbling pot. "You need to take your portion home with you."
Turning on her heel, Amanda said over her shoulder, "I seem to have lost my appetite."
When she set the flitter down beside their house half an hour later, Sarek was waiting at the front door. If Spock was surprised to find his father home early, he didn't show it. For once he was instantly obedient, heading to his bedroom when his parents moved to Sarek's private study.
As soon as Sarek shut the door behind them, Amanda sagged into his arms.
"Thank you for being here," she said, and Sarek pressed the top of her head with his chin and closed his grip around her.
"I came as soon as I knew you were in distress," he said, and slowly Amanda recalled the conversation with T'Lina for him, dimly aware that her wash of fury was causing him pain. When she fell silent again, she stepped back and let her hands slide to his.
"All this time," she said, "I thought she was…different. Not prejudiced like so many others, but really fair and impartial. I feel so foolish, Sarek. And betrayed."
She felt him sifting through a reply, felt him hesitate.
"What?" she prompted, looking him in the eye.
"She isn't wrong," Sarek said.
Amanda felt her shoulders tighten. She let go of Sarek's hands and crossed her arms.
"About what?"
"That cross species bondings are not optimal. That Spock's options are constrained."
"I can't believe you are saying this. Tell me you aren't being serious."
"Amanda, I am merely being logical. You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment."
"My judgment! You're the one saying we don't belong together—"
"I said no such thing."
"You said cross species bondings weren't optimal!"
"By optimal I meant the easiest for achieving satisfaction or harmony."
"Then you're right," Amanda said, uncrossing her arms and glaring. "We aren't very satisfied or harmonious!"
"Amanda—"
"And what about Spock? Because he's both human and Vulcan, he has no optimal choices?"
"Amanda—"
"And all those refugees? Descended from less than optimal bond pairs? That's why they aren't truly Vulcan? Why the High Council would rather they moved on, out of sight, so no one's racism is called into question?"
"If you let me—"
"I have a meal to prepare," Amanda said gruffly, yanking open the door of the study. "I know you Vulcans can go for days without food, but my human son and I have to eat!"
With a flourish, she stormed down the hall to the kitchen. In a few minutes, Amanda heard the front door open and shut and Sarek's hoverbike start up, undoubtedly taking him back to town to his office.
Good. She didn't want to try to talk to him any more right now.
"Mother?"
She looked toward the kitchen door and saw Spock standing there, his chin tilted down, his eyes in shadow.
"Everything's okay," she said to answer his unspoken question. "Come help me wash this barkaya for soup."
They prepared their meal and ate in near silence, Amanda starting each time she thought she heard Sarek's hoverbike in the distance. She went to bed late and slept uneasily.
When he still wasn't home the next morning, she was as much alarmed as angry. Spock drifted into breakfast with circles under his eyes, scuffing his feet on the flagstone floor like a man going to his own execution. With a pang Amanda knew that part of what he was suffering was her own confusion, and she redoubled her efforts to tamp down the emotional current she was broadcasting through their bond.
After breakfast she sat alone on the veranda as the sun came up and tried to get a sense of Sarek in her mind. He was so distant that she might as well have been shouting into an empty canyon. Reluctantly she gave in to the expediency of calling his office, only to be told by his secretary that he was unavailable. By midmorning when he hadn't returned the messages she left on his personal comm, she decided to act.
"Hop in," she said to Spock as she unlocked the flitter doors and slid into the pilot's seat.
"Father," Spock said, and Amanda nodded.
"Yes," she said. "We're going to find your father."
The ride to town was short and uneventful, though Amanda wouldn't have noticed otherwise, so preoccupied with the piece of her mind she intended to give Sarek when she saw him.
How dare he stay away without letting her know his plans, worrying her, and worse, worrying Spock? Yes, she hadn't wanted to speak to him last night, but that didn't mean she never wanted to speak to him. He knew her better than that.
His secretary barely glanced up when she and Spock stood in front of her desk.
"The Ambassador is unavailable," the elderly Vulcan woman said. She was stooped and thin, her graying hair pulled into a severe bun that she pinned at the base of her neck.
"So you said," Amanda said, not bothering to hide the impatience in her voice. "But this is an emergency. A family emergency. I need to speak to him."
At that the secretary did look up, and squinting briefly, said, "He's in the meeting hall in the main building."
The meeting hall door was open as Amanda and Spock, trailing slightly behind her, approached. Even as she stood in the hall, Amanda recognized Sarek's voice.
The preliminary hearing before the High Council. How had she forgotten that it was today? She started to back up and felt Spock behind her.
"Why is Father speaking?"
Spock spoke softly but the attendant at the door looked in their direction. With a wave of his hand, he motioned them forward.
"The visitors' galley is to the left," he said, and before Amanda could say a word, Spock darted forward through the door. With an apologetic shrug, she followed him to the cordoned off section of chairs and sat down.
Only a few visitors were there. By contrast, the table for the High Councilors was full, as were the rows of seats to the left and right reserved for the embassy workers and the people scheduled to testify—refugees, from the look of them.
Amanda felt Sarek's eyes on her before she glanced up. He was still removed, difficult to feel. She lifted her chin and settled back and hoped she looked more composed than she felt.
"The colonists," Sarek was saying, "have made their wishes clear. Remaining on Vulcan is, in their estimation, the most logical course of action. Most have resumed their lives and have no desire to relocate yet again."
From where she was sitting, Amanda couldn't see who spoke next, but she could hear him clearly.
"If a suitable place were found, they might prefer that."
"They have found a suitable place," Sarek said. "Here."
From the corner of her eye, Amanda saw Spock arch his back and push with his toes against the floor in an effort to see over the people sitting in front of him.
"But their presence is a disruption," the voice said, and Amanda heard a murmur rustle through the group of refugees. "My constituents complain that the foreigners are hostile to traditional Vulcan values, that they want to change our way of life."
"Hearsay," Sarek said over another outbreak of murmurs. "The refugees follow many of Surak's precepts, including the value of infinite diversity in infinite combinations."
"Surak also said that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," a dark-haired Vulcan woman sitting at the High Council table said. "The social structure of the many is under attack by these foreigners. We have a right to defend our traditions and customs."
Across the room Amanda saw Sarek look at her squarely. The bond between them flickered into life and she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Surak was not advocating the tyranny of the majority," Sarek said, but the Vulcan woman said swiftly, "That is your interpretation."
"Nor have you addressed the underlying legal issue," he said. "These refugees are not foreigners but are Vulcans."
"One has only to look closely to see that they are not," the woman said.
"Then you reject as Vulcans those persons whose genetic makeup is more complex than your own?"
Amanda slid forward in her chair, her heart thumping.
"It is not only their appearance but their habits, their beliefs."
"So you are saying that all Vulcans must behave in the same manner, believe the same things?"
"Key things, yes."
"Then how," Sarek said, "do you explain the demarcation between what you believe about these refugees and what I believe? You and I are both Vulcans, yet we differ greatly."
This time the crowd was noisier than a murmur. As if she sensed the argument about to get away from her, the woman turned to the other High Councilors and said, "The ambassador is being disingenuous."
"But you do agree that we are both Vulcans?"
"Your point, Ambassador?"
"You agree?"
"If it helps you to move forward in this discussion, then yes."
"And my son? Is he a Vulcan?"
"I do not know your son."
"Spock."
Amanda looked down to where Spock was perched on his chair. Slipping forward, he stepped around the cordon and walked down the aisle toward the High Council's table, stopping a few feet in front of the woman who had addressed Sarek. With an involuntary gasp, Amanda drew her hand over her mouth.
"Is he? A Vulcan?"
The Vulcan woman said nothing.
"Ambassador," one of the other High Councilors said, "what is your point?"
"My son," Sarek said, "is a Vulcan. My family has lived here for generations. My father served in the Council for over a century, as did his father before him. Spock carries their genes; Vulcan is his birthright."
"How does that apply to the matter at hand? Most of these foreigners are only marginally related to some distant Vulcan ancestor. They are as much Andorian or Orcian."
"And my son," Sarek said, motioning for Spock to join him where he stood to the side, "is half human. My wife—"
Amanda willed her knees not to shake as she stood and walked forward. She knew many of the Councilors, had visited their homes and recognized their spouses, had met their children. As she passed them, she tried to catch their eyes, and when she did, she gave a brief nod.
Don't pretend you don't know me, she thought.
"My wife is a human," Sarek said, "as you can see. But she is also a Vulcan by choice. She has lived here for many years—has worked in the education ministry—is raising a son as a Vulcan. In what way—in what key way," he said, looking directly at the woman Councilor, "is she not due the respect, the rights, we accord each other?"
At that the crowd erupted into noise louder than before. The chief Councilor raised his hands and asked for quiet.
In that moment Amanda felt Sarek rush back into her thoughts—the way a wave rushes toward the shore, as if its return was always expected.
"Let's go," she said softly in Spock's ear. "I told you—everything's okay."
And it was. Two days later the High Council released a statement that the refugees were free to stay on Vulcan as full citizens if they desired. As far as Amanda knew, none took up the offer to relocate elsewhere.
X X X X X
"I see what you mean," Professor Artura says. "Though in the end, the High Council made the right call. They were fair and impartial when it mattered."
"Indeed," Spock says, "though I would argue that the odds are high they would not have done so if my mother hadn't been at the hearing."
"An interesting notion," the Andorian says, nodding. "Your mother—the real ambassador."
As Spock lifts his mug to finish the last of his tea, he feels a disturbance in the air behind his back. A whiff of something light and floral, a prickle of electricity leaping through the atmosphere. His body knows the truth before his mind has time to catch up.
"Professor!"
Cadet Uhura's voice, obviously pleased about something. From across the table, Professor Artura wiggles his antenna and his face splits into a wide grin.
"Cadet, please join us," he says, and Spock feels the temperature change as she sets her tray on the table beside him and pulls out a chair.
"Do you mind, Commander?" she asks.
"Of course he doesn't," Professor Artura says. "Don't be fooled by his Vulcan demeanor. He's positively blushing."
If he wasn't flushed before, the Professor's words bring heat to his face—and a flash of annoyance. Careful not to look at the cadet, he hears her swallow and let out what sounds like an exasperated sigh.
Spock's flashes of insight into human behavior are few and far between—but with a sudden certainty, he knows she is irritated with Professor Artura on his behalf. He risks a glance in her direction.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," she tells him, "but I saw the news vid last night. I'm sorry about what happened."
"The Commander was just telling me about a similar situation when he was a child," Professor Artura says, pushing away from the table and standing up carefully. "Perhaps he will tell you the story. It is quite enlightening."
A feeling close to panic ripples through Spock as he watches the Andorian pick up his tray. Spock puts his hands on both sides of his tray and starts to rise as well.
"Oh, no," Professor Artura says. "You haven't finished your lunch, and you need to eat. Cadet Uhura, make sure the Commander gets what he needs."
The professor's double entendre is unmistakable. He grins and shuffles away.
"I'm sorry, sir."
For the first time since she sat down, Spock looks directly at the cadet. She's frowning slightly, her hands resting on the table in front of her.
"He likes to tease," she adds, picking up her spoon. "He doesn't mean anything by it. It's how he always teased his daughter..."
She tugs off the foil top of a yogurt carton and dips her spoon.
"...before she died," she says. Spock watches the journey of her spoon to her mouth.
Pulling himself up short, he says, "Professor Artura's daughter?"
"Oh, yes," Cadet Uhura says. "She and his wife were both killed in some kind of feud. I think that's why he doesn't live on Andoria anymore. You probably know more about it than I do."
She takes another bite of yogurt and Spock feels an odd sensation near his sternum as the spoon touches her bottom lip.
"I was…unaware…that the Professor had a daughter," he says, willing himself to look down at his half-eaten salad.
That Cadet Uhura knows so much personal information about Professor Artura is astonishing. Spock has taught in the same department for two years now—has shared numerous tea breaks, has sat beside the Andorian in faculty meetings—without learning the kinds of details the cadet knows.
"He says I remind him of her," she says, and Spock looks back up. He tries—unsuccessfully—to imagine what the resemblance might be.
"I know," she says, laughing. "I can't picture it either."
He actually shivers then—not noticeably, to be sure, but enough to alarm him. It's as if she can sense his thoughts—
"Commander," she says suddenly, leaning toward him, "I hope you don't think I'm out of line asking this, but—"
Someone at the next table drops a tray and the sound of shattered glass makes him jump.
"—I was wondering if you would recommend me for a summer internship."
How did she know? He hasn't yet heard about the funding, but he's reasonably certain that the Federation will approve his summer project. He has asked for enough money to support two interns to translate and record first time applications for Federation membership.
Off-worlders new to the Federation often have trouble navigating the lengthy application process. In addition, non-Standard speakers need extra support from translation services—services his advanced language students can provide.
The funding doesn't have to be much. Enough to pay the expenses of two interns, sufficient office space, a salary for his oversight. He had hoped to get confirmation before the end of the semester when he could approach his best students with the offer.
And now somehow Cadet Uhura knows about the job.
The contradiction of excitement and despair at the image of working side-by-side with her all summer catches him off guard.
"My last exam isn't until next Wednesday," she says, "but after that I'm going home unless something comes up."
He opens his mouth to explain that the translation job is hers if she wants it—and even as he does, he feels his heart lift with the idea.
"But if you would recommend me," she says, "Dr. Ellington says he can make a position for me at the Mars sensor lab."
With a clink, he sets his fork on his plate.
"The Mars sensor lab?"
"Uh huh. Helping calibrate the new telemetry equipment. Not the most exciting way to spend a summer, but it might be useful."
"I see."
He is nailed to his chair, his arms and legs so heavy that he doesn't move.
A summer on Mars. Naturally she is correct. Learning to calibrate the telemetry equipment would be a better use of her time than working on simple translations. Would make her more competitive when she graduates and applies for a position on a starship.
"Of course," he says. "I will be happy to recommend you."
"Thank you," she says, finishing the last bite of her yogurt. She motions to his plate, still piled with salad. "Tell me that story Professor Artura mentioned while you eat."
She's smiling—happy with the promise of a summer away on Mars.
The next two months stretch before him like a desert.
"Another time, perhaps," he says, knowing there won't be one. As he gets up and picks up his tray, he sees her expression as he turns to go—surprise at his departure? Relief?
He walks out of the cafeteria without looking back, a refugee without a moor, at sea.
A/N: Please forgive the tardy update and the lengthy chapter. I took time out to write "Ceremony" for the LJ Holiday Fic Exchange, and other RL challenges have interrupted my schedule. Now I'm back on track. I hope I haven't lost you! Please let me know if you are still out there reading!