Chapter Five: Advice
Disclaimer: This is my playground, not where I work and make money.
Admiral McEwan is not amused.
Even Spock can see that at once.
Standing with his hands behind his back, he waits at the door of her office for her to acknowledge him. Instead, she continues scanning the PADD in her hand without looking up. As he waits, Spock notes that her short gray hair needs a trim, that her posture is stiffer than usual.
Across the desk sits Commander Jeffers, a colleague from the computer department. An older man as tall and thin as Spock, Jeffers is on temporary assignment at the Academy after serving two tours on a remote research outpost.
Spock doesn't know Jeffers well—has, in fact, spoken to him rarely—the last time to tell him that he wasn't interested in collaborating on a proposal for a cybernetic hardware update for the active ships of the line. The Commander had seemed to accept his refusal, but his presence in the Admiral's office at the same time that Spock has been ordered to report suggests otherwise.
Finally the Admiral sets the PADD on her desk and directs her attention to Spock. With a wave of her hand, she motions him to the other chair in front of her desk.
"Do you know why I've called you here?" she asks, and Spock says, "Presumably to order me to aid the Commander in the upgrade."
The Admiral frowns—though whether because she is surprised that he has ascertained why he is being summoned or because she is upset for some reason, he doesn't know.
"No one's going to order you," she says, pursing her lips. "But I want an explanation as to why you refused to help."
"I thought the project ill advised," Spock says swiftly. To his right, Commander Jeffers shifts in his chair.
"You do know that the cybernetic hardware is overdue for an update," Jeffers says, and Spock turns to face him.
"Although it is scheduled in the maintenance rotation," Spock says, "no one using the hardware has requested an upgrade. In fact, the efficiency ranking for the current system is 95.44%. The long-range sensors, on the other hand, are consistently cited as needing improvement."
"Long-range sensors were upgraded six months ago," Admiral McEwan says. "The cybernetic hardware is two years old."
"Six months ago refined iridium was not available for use in sensor arrays. The new treaty with the Trastian Syndicate means that a reliable source of iridium is now possible. Replacing the duranium currently used with refined iridium would increase the range of the arrays by 27%. Starfleet would be better served by investing in the long-range sensor upgrade instead of the cybernetic hardware."
The Admiral taps one finger on her desk.
"When you turned down Commander Jeffers' request to work with him on the cybernetic hardware, did you offer this explanation?"
"He did not request one."
"Did you tell anyone that you think the long range sensor array should be refitted instead of upgrading the cybernetic hardware?"
"There was no need. The refit is logical. Those charged with the maintenance rotation must be aware of the availability of the more highly refined iridium."
The Admiral makes eye contact with Commander Jeffers and sends him some nonverbal message that Spock assumes is a reprimand, most likely for wasting her time.
"That's all, Commander Jeffers," she says abruptly, and Spock starts to rise as well. "Not you, Commander Spock."
As soon as Jeffers closes the door behind him, Admiral McEwan slams her hand flat on the desk.
"Dammit, Spock!" she says. His eyebrows fly into his bangs, giving away his surprise. "When a colleague asks for your help, would it hurt you to give it?"
He recognizes that this is a rhetorical question—something humans ask as a way of making a point rather than seeking genuine information. Folding his hands on his lap, he waits for the Admiral to continue.
"This isn't the first time I've had to field a complaint about your intransigence—"
At this Spock's eyebrows fly up again. With an effort, he blanks his expression.
"—but it will be the last. Starfleet isn't an organization of individuals all going their own way. You know that. I shouldn't have to waste my time telling you that. Without teamwork we all fail. Do I make myself clear?"
The Admiral, in fact, has confused him. Is she telling him that he is to help Commander Jeffers after all? Surely not. He had clarified his objections to the Commander's project. She must be speaking abstractly, directing him to increase the percentage of his time that he spends collaborating with colleagues in the future.
"Sometimes you have to go along to get along," his mother told him more than once, usually when he objected to something his father wanted him to do. "You don't have to get your way all the time."
But it wasn't about getting his way. It was about doing what was logical. If his father told him to water the garden at noon, waiting until evening when the evaporation rate was less made more sense.
"Just go along," his mother would repeat, and invariably he did, reluctantly, feeling like a fraud.
Still, the harmony in the house was maintained, and that, he supposed, was the real reason for his mother's advice.
And perhaps for the Admiral's words now. He tilts his head and says, "I understand."
When he gets back to the language building and heads down the hall to his office, he hears the voice of his new aide, J. C. Ellison, coming from the break room.
"Hello, Commander," J. C. says with an unnecessary wave of his hand. Across the table with her back to him is Cadet Uhura, her long ponytail swinging to the side as she looks over her shoulder at him and smiles. To his dismay, he feels heat wash over him like a wave.
He hasn't seen her since the new semester began two weeks ago—not even a glimpse as he walked across the commons or made his way from the language to the computer science buildings. That she's here now—with Cadet Ellison—is both unexpected and disturbing.
"Cadet Ellison," Spock says. "Cadet Uhura. I trust your summer internship was successful."
"The word you mean," she says, "is stressful."
"Shoulda stayed here and done translations with me," J. C. says. "Commander Spock's easier to work for than Dr. Ellison. I warned you about that."
Cadet Uhura's expression is unreadable. "I didn't know there was a job available here," she says, darting a look in Spock's direction.
She leans forward again and the sight of her ponytail sweeping her shoulders causes him intense discomfort. As he watches, she places the fingers of her right hand on J. C.'s wrist, an action so intimate that Spock has to look away.
"Did you ask?" she says, and J. C. shakes his head. Spock hears her give a sigh, loud and exaggerated, that he realizes is for dramatic effect. A joke of some sort? Some private communication with Cadet Ellison?
"Commander," she says, turning her gaze on him, "J. C. was supposed to ask you already, but I wanted to see if you have any time this semester when I could come in for a Vulcan language tutorial. I met a Vulcan researcher on the Mars station who said I needed some help with my fricatives."
His reaction is immediate.
"Whoever told you that was misinformed. Your pronunciation is sufficient."
He intends it as a statement of fact—and partly as a compliment—but she knits her brows together and tips her chin down, as if he had scolded her or told her something unpleasant.
"That's why I didn't ask," Cadet Ellison says, leaning near her ear as he stands up. "Excuse me, Commander. I have to open the lab now."
Waiting a beat, Spock stands beside the table, expecting Cadet Uhura to leave as well. Instead, she lifts one hand and says, "Commander?" and he realizes with a start that she is inviting him to sit.
"You have a question?" he parries, and she says, "I need some advice. About a problem I'm having with an instructor."
Not alarm but something akin to it stops him from his planned exit.
"I am hardly in a position to give advice," he says, an image of Admiral McEwan flashing through his mind. "Human relationships are beyond my expertise. You would do better to ask your faculty advisor."
He turns to go but her voice calls him back.
"Yes," she says, "I understand. I did consult her, but she wasn't very helpful. I won't take more than a moment of your time, really."
It's a question—no, it's more than that, a supplication. Taking a slow breath, he pulls out the chair abandoned by Cadet Ellison and perches on its edge.
"It's just," she continues in a rush, as if to keep him from fleeing, "you know me. You know how committed I am to securing a posting on the Enterprise when I graduate."
"You have mentioned it repeatedly," he says, and she flashes him an odd look. Should he have been more precise? She's spoken to him—and to her classmates within his hearing—of her ambitions about the Enterprise on at least nine different occasions.
"Well, yes," she says, stumbling slightly over her words. "Anyway, my instructor knows that, too, but when I've asked for advanced work or extra assignments, he hasn't been cooperative."
That seems unusual. In Spock's experience, most professors are more than willing to augment their curriculum for interested students.
"Perhaps his schedule precludes offering you additional time," he says, settling back a fraction in the chair. He watches an expression flicker across Cadet Uhura's face.
"That could be right," she says, nodding slowly. "Whenever I talk to him, he seems preoccupied."
"You could ask your faculty advisor to approach him," Spock says, but she shakes her head.
"No," she says, "I can't expect anyone else to run interference for me. I've tried doing things his way—you know, when he turns me down, just accepting what he decides. I need to figure out how to convince him to take me seriously."
Spock isn't sure what to say. He has trouble imagining someone not taking the cadet seriously, not recognizing her obvious gifts and helping her toward her goal of the Enterprise. He feels a pang of anger on her behalf.
Clearly he is unable to assist her. He starts to say so but something holds him back.
With an almost imperceptible wince, she says, "I'm sorry, Commander. I didn't mean to take up your time. I'll figure it out—eventually."
She smiles then, and that—the parting of her lips, the brief flash of her teeth—propels his next words without a conscious decision.
"My mother," he says, "often cautioned me to accommodate others, to go along when necessary."
Glancing at her, he sees that she is looking at him closely and he swallows before continuing.
"However," he adds, "she also had another saying she liked to quote: to thine own self be true."
"Shakespeare," the cadet says, and he nods and says, "Hamlet."
"You're telling me to let the instructor know in no uncertain terms what I want. Not to accept no for an answer."
"I am indeed."
"And you think that might work."
It's a declaration more than a question—he hears her certainty.
"It did for my mother," he says, and then for the second time in less than a minute, he shocks himself by uttering something he hadn't planned to say. "If you have a few moments, you might find her story instructive."
X X X X X X
I see what you mean.
From across the crowded reception room, Amanda saw Sarek react to her observation, the slightest hitch in his step as he walked slowly beside the Trastian alcor, who like so many species in this quadrant, was upright and bipedal, with sense organs equating eyes and ears. At least thirty centimeters shorter than Sarek and far more compact, the alcor—the hereditary leader of the rather reclusive people known for their mining facilities and metalworking skills—was speaking non-stop, alternatively punching his fists in the air and waving his arms broadly.
Sarek's mild distress at the unpredictable noise and motion radiated through their bond. When the alcor paused for a moment, Sarek met Amanda's eye and she hurried across the room.
"My wife, Amanda," he said, lifting his hand toward her. Raising her eyebrows at his uncharacteristic invitation, Amanda brushed his palm with her fingertips briefly before letting her hands fall to her side.
You must be unsettled, indeed, to need a public touch.
"You belong to the Ambassador?" the alcor said. This close Amanda could see why so many people found him unnerving. His gaze was too intense, his eyes as light and transparent as water.
"We belong to each other," she replied, tamping down a prickle of annoyance—either hers or Sarek's.
The alcor made a dismissive motion with his hand.
"A matter of semantics," he said. "It doesn't change the reality. I know, I know. I've been informed that Vulcans do not recognize the same hierarchies that the Trastians do. Nevertheless, one of you is the Ambassador—"
With a flick of his finger, the alcor pointed to Sarek.
"—and one of you…is not."
A reply was on the tip of Amanda's tongue when she felt Sarek caution her.
"Your son," Sarek said, looking in the direction of a Trastian boy standing near a table of edible fruits. "Does he usually travel with you?"
It was an obvious redirection of the conversation and Amanda felt irritated, as if she had been scolded.
"Another curious matter of semantics," the alcor said. "We do not call them our sons. On Trastia we call them our manifestations. Or some prefer the term replacements."
"Not clones?" Amanda interjected before she could stop herself. "I understood that they are your genetic duplicates, that each Trastian has his own—"
To her surprise, the alcor rounded on her and raised his voice.
"They are not clones," he said, his eyes narrowed, his breathing heavy. "That term implies that they are artificially engineered, but our manifestations are naturally engendered. Our reproductive habits are as valid as yours."
"I meant no offense—"
"We know how the Federation judges us," the alcor said. "They call us slaves to our genes, people without choice. But our society is stable, our future secure, because we know what our offspring will be like. We have no worries about producing unacceptable sons—"
The alcor blinked his colorless eyes and made a show of looking toward the corner where Spock stood. At fourteen he was almost as tall as his father but with the typical gangliness of an adolescent, his hands too big for his wrists, his shoulders narrow.
A firmness on Amanda's shoulder—Sarek's hand, shepherding her away.
"You do Spock no favors if you give into your emotions now," she heard him say at her ear.
Releasing her pent-up breath, she said, "He's an arrogant, self-important—"
"He is," Sarek said with an equanimity that threatened to make her even angrier, "and he is also the leader of his people. We have no other options but to deal with him. The Trastians have a great deal of valuable expertise they could bring to the Federation—"
"And lots of wrong-headed ideas," Amanda said hotly. "Stable society, indeed! Moribund is more like it—each individual replaced by someone just like him, never changing. Who's to say that the alcor and his descendants should always be the leaders? Maybe someone else would do a better job!"
"The Trastians claim that they have evolved to fulfill specific functions," Sarek said, walking Amanda toward the corner where Spock still stood alone. "The alcor's genetic temperament makes him best suited for his leadership role—"
"Do you believe that!"
Although she couched it as a question, Amanda knew that Sarek heard the challenge in her words—heard that she was throwing down a verbal gauntlet.
Instead of looking annoyed, Sarek was amused.
"I was merely repeating what the Trastians believe," he said. "I make no judgments. I am doing what I heard you tell Spock to do two days ago—going along to get along."
Amanda tried to hold onto her anger and failed.
"Don't either of you say a word," she said, glancing from Sarek to Spock and back again.
With a tilt of his head, Sarek turned and headed back into the crowd. At her elbow, Amanda felt Spock shift from one foot to another, and she said, "Go make yourself useful. See those two young men over there? One is the son…the manifestation…of the alcor. I don't know who the other one is. Go…visit."
It was almost cruel, forcing him to socialize when he was clearly uncomfortable, but the alcor's comment about unacceptable sons rankled her, made her want to put Spock front and center, his intellect obvious, her pride in him justified. A childish reaction—no, a human one. Well, she shouldn't have to rein in every human impulse.
The rest of the evening was a blur of divided loyalties—playing the ambassador's wife, making small talk with the other Trastians, introducing them to the Vulcan staff—all the while keeping an eye on Spock as he stood and talked, awkwardly, stiffly, with the two Trastian teens. By the end of the night she was exhausted from worry.
"I know that wasn't easy," she told him as they rode home together in the flitter after the reception. From her place in the pilot's seat, she could see Spock's face in the rear mirror. On the passenger side, Sarek thumbed through his PADD but Amanda could tell from the cant of his head that he was listening closely. "I appreciate what you did," she said, catching Spock's eye in the mirror.
Instead of answering, Spock gave her a long glance before looking out the window of the flitter, his way of both acknowledging her and then cutting her out of his attention.
I have done what you asked—now leave me alone.
He didn't say it, but he didn't need to. She recognized the look from her own teenaged days.
Going along to get along. How many times had she bitten her tongue when her mother had embarrassed her in public, had made a ridiculous demand?
She opened her mouth to say something—an apology, perhaps, or to offer a story about herself at 14—when Sarek turned toward Spock and said, "The alcor appreciated your attentions to his manifestation as well. He has asked that we allow him to visit our home tomorrow. I expect you to continue to be helpful."
"The alcor's son? At our house?" Amanda blurted out.
"Indeed. Do you object?"
"You should have asked me!"
"I am asking you now."
"I thought you said he was coming."
"He is," Sarek said, the light from the PADD casting eerie shadows in the dark flitter. "However, I can tell him that the offer is rescinded."
Amanda gripped the flitter's steering bar and huffed loudly.
"Oh, no," she grumbled. "I'm not about to create an intergalactic incident!"
The next morning she was sipping her first cup of tea when the alcor's party arrived—not the large retinue Amanda had envisioned, but the alcor's son—she could barely bring herself to call him a manifestation—and the other young Trastian she had seen the night before. The morning was chilly and Amanda led them into the kitchen and handed them both cups of tea, motioning for them to sit at the table.
"I understand," she said, settling herself in her own chair and picking her cup back up, "that you would like to spend some time seeing what ordinary Vulcans do all day."
"You are hardly ordinary Vulcans," the alcor's son said, and Amanda flushed, unsure whether or not his words were intended as an insult. Before she could reply, the other young Trastian said, "Your hospitality is most welcome, Lady Ambassador."
His tone was soothing, calculated to mollify her. Amanda realized that she didn't mind.
For the first time, she gave the other Trastian her attention. Short and squat like the alcor's son, he was less striking, his eyes deep purple, his hand gestures fluid and practiced. On closer inspection, Amanda decided he was older than the alcor's son, too, though not by much. Both young men wore heavy form-fitting jackets embellished with metal studs and pins. A reddish fuzz covered the top of their heads—very fine hair cut short, most likely.
"Call me Amanda," she said, offering to pour more tea. "And what should I call you?"
Neither Trastian spoke. Instead, they looked at Amanda blankly.
Finally the alcor's son said, "You may call me alcor. And this is rinx."
"Alcor and Rinx? Those are your names?"
"They are who we are," the alcor's son said. "Or who we will become when the prior manifestations die. We do not have names as you do."
"I see," Amanda said, but in fact her head was spinning. "Well, I understand what the alcor does," she said, "but tell me about…rinx."
To her surprise, the alcor's son spoke.
"The rinx is the personal attendant of the alcor," he said. "Without his help, the alcor would waste much time on menial matters."
As he spoke, the alcor's son flicked his fingers in the other Trastian's direction—not quite a dismissal, but close. To her dismay, Amanda felt her face flush.
A servant? A slave? Even as the words echoed in her mind, she realized she was being Terran-centric, parochial. These people had evolved their own customs and traditions, a social order that worked for them. Judging them by human standards would be wrong.
Or even by Vulcan standards. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations suggested that the Trastian culture was as valid as any other.
Beautiful in theory—but in practice?
She wasn't sure. Shouldn't choice and dignity factor in somewhere?
If the young Trastian—Rinx, she thought, unwilling to think of him as a what instead of a who—was content with his role in life, who was she to object?
But setting aside her moral objections was like trying to ignore a toothache, or like trying to run with splints on her feet—hobbling her with a nagging discontent.
"How about breakfast?" she asked, and seeing uncomprehending stares, she added, "Food? Nourishment? Do you want something to eat?"
"It is not necessary," the alcor's son said.
"What about you?" she said, making eye contact with Rinx. She felt rather than saw the alcor's son react, a twitch of his shoulders, as if he were shrugging off a fly.
"More tea," Rinx said, and again Amanda had the impression that the alcor's son was surprised.
"Spock should be home soon," she said as she refilled Rinx's cup. "He goes for an early run before school."
"Warrior training," the alcor's son said. "I would like to see your military facilities."
From the oven came the smell of flatbread and Amanda rose to take it out.
"Care to try it?" she asked, and as she expected, the alcor's son shook his head. Rinx, on the other hand, darted a glance in his direction before saying, "Yes, please."
"I was unaware that you needed to eat a morning meal," the alcor's son said, and Rinx made what Amanda assumed was the Trastian equivalent of a grimace.
"You did not ask," he said, watching as Amanda sliced wedges of bread. Taking a tentative nibble of the one she offered him, he wrinkled his mouth oddly.
"You like it?" Amanda asked.
With a sudden noise, Rinx spit the wad of wet bread into his hand.
"I'll take that as a no," Amanda said, laughing. In the early light filtering into the kitchen, Rinx's skin flushed gray.
"I have upset you!" he said, a note of panic in his voice.
"I am not upset," Amanda said, reaching across the table and giving his forearm a little squeeze. "You're allowed to have your own opinions."
"A dangerous precedent," the alcor's son said, running his hand forward over his fringe of hair.
The sound of the front door opening—the breeze wafting through the hall—and Spock was suddenly standing at one end of the kitchen.
A human would have been sweaty, in disarray, after running in the desert for an hour. Instead, Spock was loose-limbed, alert, his breathing measured as he looked quickly around the room at their guests. Amanda knew that if she asked him later, he would recall where everyone sat, what everyone was doing the moment he arrived.
"Arise," the alcor's son said, and Rinx stood up immediately. "I'm ready to see your training ground now."
"If by training ground you mean school," Spock said neatly, making his way to the shelf where Amanda stored the tea mugs, "then you may accompany me."
Slipping to a place beside his mother, Spock held out his mug.
"And if by now you mean once Spock has eaten his breakfast," Amanda said, pouring the tea, "then I'll transport all of you there in the flitter."
The same twitch of his shoulders denoting disapproval rippled through the alcor's son. When Amanda set the teapot on the table, Spock made eye contact with her intentionally, looking up at the same moment she blinked. So, he had noticed that little twitch as well.
"My rinx can transport us," the alcor's son said, and rather than protest, Amanda shrugged.
"As you wish," she said, trying to stifle her annoyance. "It will save me the trouble," she said, deliberately leaning toward Rinx.
"Serving this way gives me pleasure," he said in the same soothing voice he had used earlier, and Amanda felt her anger melt away. Of course he would find meaning in his work. Why shouldn't he?
But after the boys left—Rinx behind the controls of a borrowed Vulcan flitter—she shook herself.
"It isn't right," she said aloud as she rinsed out the tea mugs and put the leftover bread in the stasis chamber.
When Sarek came home for a midday meal, she resurrected her anger.
"I don't think he even questions what he's doing, how he treats others."
"Why should he?" Sarek said, selecting a ripe kasa from a ceramic bowl in the counter. "He is being groomed to take over as the alcor one day. From my own observations, the current alcor considers no one else when making decisions."
At that Amanda was caught up short. Sarek so rarely complained that the slight note of exasperation in his words crashed like thunder in her ears.
Suddenly she could see it—the difficult morning at the embassy, Sarek struggling to make the alcor comfortable, each effort rebuffed. Food and drink refused. Chairs sent away and replaced with softer ones, then harder ones. The temperature in the meeting room adjusted so low that the Vulcan staff members donned their outer cloaks and kept their hands in their pockets.
"Maybe you shouldn't be so agreeable," she said, pursing her mouth.
"To what end? The alcor would take offense, and the mining expertise of the Trastians would be lost to the Federation."
"It might be lost anyway," Amanda said. "The Federation Council isn't going to approve membership for people who treat some of their citizens like trained pets."
"An exaggeration."
"It's true."
"You are basing that conclusion on insufficient data."
"How many Trastians do I need to know to have sufficient data? Besides," she said, snaking her hand into Sarek's, "even if I do have insufficient data, it isn't wrong."
She felt the hum of agreement through his fingers and she grinned.
Her good mood lasted only until the Trastians returned with Spock that evening, late enough that she had begun to worry. When he walked through the front door, Spock's expression warned her off from asking anything. Hesitantly she tried to feel him through their bond, pushing aside his normal shields like lifting a velvet curtain. He was furious—not with her but with the alcor's son, his emotions crackling and snapping like a loose electric current. Hastily she withdrew.
"I require immediate sustenance," the alcor's son said as he followed Spock into the house. "You will instruct my rinx on how to obtain and prepare it."
He blinked his colorless eyes at her and leaned heavily against a small table in the entryway, scattering the PADDs and keys and tablets stacked there. Rinx dropped at once to his knees to gather them up.
Crossing her arms, Amanda said, "I am busy at the moment, but you are welcome to help yourself to something in the kitchen. There's fruit and bread in the stasis container."
"I require substantial sustenance. You will cease what you are doing and help my rinx."
From the corner of her eye she saw Spock moving closer, though whether out of some protective posture or as a threatening gesture, she wasn't sure.
The alcor's son noted it, too.
"If you touch me," he said, "my rinx will harm you."
"No one's going to harm anyone in this house!" Amanda said, heat rising to her face. "You need to leave. Now."
"I leave when I want to leave," the alcor's son said. "Not when a rinx tells me to leave."
For a wild moment Amanda's vision blurred.
"I couldn't see straight," she told Sarek later as they sat side-by-side on the sofa after dinner. "I've always heard people say that—that they were so mad they couldn't see straight, but I didn't know it was true. Thank goodness the Trastians left right after that."
Instead of any of the possible responses Sarek might have made—aping ignorance of the idiom, for instance, or gently chastising her for letting her emotions control her—Sarek surprised her by pulling inward, growing so still and distant that for a moment she thought he was ill.
"Sarek?"
With a deliberate motion, he held out his hand to her and she let her palm drift to his. For a moment he remained silent and then his frustration flooded her.
"Accommodating the alcor has not advanced our understanding of each other," he said slowly.
"Oh, you understand each other," Amanda said. "He understands that you'll do whatever he wants. You understand that he's not going to change."
"It's curious," Sarek said, his gaze unfocused. "An alliance between Trastia and the Federation offers many mutual benefits. The Trastians, however, seem unwilling to compromise to reach that goal."
"Maybe they can't."
Turning his gaze on Amanda, Sarek knit his brows together and said, "Explain."
"It's like you said. The Trastians evolved into certain roles. The alcors have always been in control—being bossy and arrogant is in their genes. Maybe they really can't act any other way."
"Their genes are their destiny? I have heard you disclaim against that idea before."
With a sly wink, Amanda said, "The Trastians are changing my mind. If I think they can't control their behavior, then I won't hold them accountable. I won't get so mad at them that I can't see straight."
"That does not help me solve my own challenges with them," Sarek said, and Amanda knew he was only partly joking.
"I've already told you what to do," she said, sidling closer on the sofa. "Stop being so agreeable. Stop giving in to every demand. Start being more like you really are—stubborn and exasperating."
She got up then, the fingers of her left hand trailing down his arm, an invitation sent—and accepted—as he followed her to their bedroom.
When the door chimed the next morning, Amanda was heating water for the tea. Assuming it was Spock returning from his run, she was astonished at the sight of Rinx standing in the gray haze, the borrowed flitter in shadow on the landing pad beside the house.
"What are you doing here?" she asked as she stepped back into the entryway. "Where's the alcor's son?"
With a shambling gait, Rinx made his way to the kitchen and sat down, folding his hands on the table in front of him.
"Forgive me for intruding," he said, nodding as Amanda slid a cup to him. "No one knows I'm here."
"Then why—" she began, but with a sudden leap of logic, she knew why Rinx had come.
"You want asylum," she said, watching the young man's face closely. "You'll need to talk to someone at the embassy and plead your case. I can't speak for the Ambassador, of course, but I think you have a good chance."
Rinx's deep purple eyes seemed to grow darker in the gloom of the kitchen.
"Asylum?"
"I don't know what you call it on Trastia. Political refuge? Safety?"
"You mean, leave Trastia?"
"Yes, if that's what you want. You don't have to stay there if your life is intolerable."
On the hob on the counter the kettle began to boil.
"You can make the life you want," she said, reaching over and pouring water into the ceramic teapot, adding a handful of herbs to steep.
"But," Rinx said, frowning, "I have the life I want. I don't wish to leave my home."
"I don't understand," Amanda said. "Then why are you here?"
"Ah," Rinx said, his expression lifting, his hands fluttering softly before him, "I wanted to thank you. Yesterday was most illuminating. How fortunate you and the Ambassador are to have a mutual manifestation!"
For a moment Amanda heard Rinx's words without comprehending them.
"Our mutual manifestation? You mean…Spock?"
"Such an interesting way to reproduce," Rinx said. "The sum greater than the parts."
Amanda laughed.
"Well," she said, "that's one way to put it. I'm sure Spock will agree."
"Perhaps you will tell him," Rinx said, his eyes following Amanda's motions as she poured him a cup of tea. "I am sorry that our time together ended badly."
"Spock said there was some sort of argument," Amanda said, "with the alcor's son."
Rinx nodded.
"He objected to the idea that Spock's future is undetermined, since he is both Vulcan and human. On our world, we would never consider ignoring our genetic destiny. Such an idea is…scandalous."
Amanda took a sip of her tea and considered what to say.
"We believe," she said at last, "that our genes are only part of what drives our decisions. We also exercise our free will. Spock can choose which parts of his Vulcan and human heritage are authentic for him. Does that make sense?"
Rinx set his empty tea cup on the table and made the odd wrinkle of his mouth that seemed to approximate a grimace.
"You can change your destiny?"
"We make it," Amanda said.
"I have to go," Rinx said, "before they miss me. I wanted to say goodbye without…anyone…else to hear me."
"Goodbye? Sarek didn't say the negotiations were finished."
But Rinx said nothing more, just gave his same smile and shambled out. In a moment Amanda heard the flitter roar to life and lift off.
Sure enough, the Trastians left that day, the negotiations to begin admission to the Federation halted. When he told Amanda about it, Sarek sounded almost rueful—his disappointment close to the surface.
"I should have taken your advice," he told her over dinner, Spock sitting at one end of the table quietly spooning his soup. "So much effort wasted trying to compromise with people who apparently are incapable of it."
"Oh, I don't know," Amanda said. "You might have planted a few seeds of change. More importantly, you learned a valuable lesson. The next time someone accuses the Vulcan delegation of being difficult, you'll understand what they mean."
The tiniest hesitation in lifting his spoon to his mouth gave Spock away. Without moving her head, Amanda cut her eyes at her son.
"And don't you think you are off the hook," she told him. "You're just as stubborn as your father."
She saw something click in his features—a hint that he was feeling mischievous. Setting his spoon in his bowl, he looked first at her and then at Sarek.
"My genetic destiny," he said. Waiting a beat, he picked his spoon back up and said, "You can hardly call me to account for it."
"I can and I will," Amanda said, struggling to keep the smile off her face. "Just try me."
X X X X X X X
The story takes less than five minutes to tell, stripped, as it is, of the more personal details. No need to reveal too much—such as his own struggle with destiny and choice, for instance. Instead, he sticks to the facts about his father's failure to convince the Trastians to apply for membership in the Federation.
"I'm confused," Cadet Uhura says when he finishes. "I thought you said your mother's advice worked. That she told your father to be true to himself instead of trying to kowtow to the alcor."
"Advice he did not take," Spock adds, and the cadet frowns.
"Then how—"
"Last month the Trastians became signatories to the Federation charter, eleven years after meeting with the Vulcans. The new alcor and his advisor have begun the social changes necessary for consideration as members of the Federation."
"The alcor's son," Cadet Uhura says immediately, "and Rinx. They're in charge now."
"Indeed," Spock replies, allowing himself to feel pleasure at her quick intuition. "The Trastian mining syndicate has already signed an agreement to supply highly refined iridium for long-range sensor array refits."
A gifted student in every way. Perhaps he should reconsider her request for tutoring.
"As I stated earlier," he says, watching her closely to gauge her response, "the pronunciation of your Vulcan fricatives is fine."
At some level he is aware that his abrupt change of topic startles her. She straightens in her chair and seems to pull herself from a distance.
"Yes," she says, a shadow crossing her features, "you did state that. However, fine has variable definitions. Fine is not acceptable."
As she speaks, the cadet dips her head for emphasis, sending her ponytail swinging over her shoulder.
A distant memory tugs at his consciousness, but he's too distracted to recall it at the moment.
Later, when he meditates.
"Very well," he says, "I'll ask Cadet Ellison to add you to my schedule."
A simple tutorial—nothing intimate or suggestive. Once a week, twice.
More if she insists.
"I have a class to prepare for," he says, standing up and moving toward the door of the break room. "And you have an instructor to see. About the extra work?"
A flicker of a frown and then the cadet's expression breaks into a smile, her dark eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Oh, that," she says, laughing. "I already have. I took care of it just now."
And with that she picks up her backpack and passes him in the doorway, her lips pressed into a knowing smile.
A/N: This story is a labor of love. Thanks to everyone who reads it—and double thanks to everyone who takes the time to leave a review. Your kindness is much appreciated.
It's been an exciting week for Star Trek 2009 fans—with many actors joining the cast of the new movie and principal photography starting. I hope the news will renew the fans' interest in reading about our favorite crew!
In the meantime, if you are a "Thor" fan—or a Marvel Comics buff—Startrekfanwriter is currently having fun over in Thor land with a Loki/Darcy story, "Love and Other Lies."