Spock wound his way through the gnarled stalks of tree-sized fungi, their elongated brown caps like opaque umbrellas obscuring the weak light of dawn. The forest exuded a deep, musky scent; a faint drizzle pattered gently about him, clinging cooly to his shoulders and making the spongy terrain give even more beneath his feet. Softly he wound his way through the giant stems, his feet making barely as much noise as the ceaseless tapping of the tiny drops.

Spock broke into the clearing and found the shuttlecraft waiting where he had left it, maneuvered into an open pocket of this fascinating jungle. He trotted up to it unhurriedly, feeling deeply relaxed. His all-night run had been both invigorating and restorative. Only 6.2 kilometers beyond the peculiar mushroom forest, the terrain opened up into brackets and pads of fascinating shapes, challenging him to explore them. The last thirty-three hours had been given over purely to the pleasure of discovery and the comfort of movement. He had not slept often so far on his journey, but he felt tonight (today) he could manage it. Perhaps the dreams… well, he would not speculate. Yet he would welcome a sleep without dreams.

He detached the fastening of his small pack with one hand and caught it up. He rooted through it cautiously, careful not to spill the specimens he had collected that filled it to the bulging point. Locating his field tricorder, he pushed the button to supply the proper code. The shuttlecraft's hatch obediently opened.

He bounded up the short staircase and ducked inside, the interior lights flickering on as they sensed his presence. Depositing his pack in the copilot's chair, he crossed to the shuttle's main console and immediately tapped in his authorization code. The console sprang to life— and with it, the message-indicator light.

Spock suppressed a sigh. It was a goal of his to... not precisely deceive Nyota, but keep her unaware of the extent of his activities. He was certain she would worry if she knew how far he traveled, and with such rudimentary support. To that end, he tried to respond to her messages as quickly as possible— as if he had little to do but continuously return to the shuttlecraft and look for messages. On this latest excursion he had been away only one full day; at 33.2 hours, the Emegian day was longer than a standard Terran one.

Yet the console indicated that two messages from the Enterprise had arrived during his absence. The first was timestamped a mere 1.2 hours after he had departed the shuttlecraft. Regrettable, as it meant the response interval had been unfortunately extended (in Nyota's timeframe) by a full day. Unusually, a second message had arrived some 12 hours after the first. Spock paused. Two messages sent in one day might perhaps portend an ominous situation. Obviously, someone aboard the Enterprise was keen to reach him. He prepared himself to receive bad news.

Spock sank into the pilot's chair. "Computer, play messages."

The first was dated 5.4 days earlier, having spent four standard days in transit and 1.4 more awaiting his arrival on the shuttlecraft. The message was from Nyota, of course. He listened carefully, but it contained nothing more than an accounting of her recent activities and such ship's information as one might expect on a routine mission. The second, sent 12.8 hours after the first, was more puzzling. It wasn't signed, and contained neither visual nor audio content. Beneath the computer-supplied header and date was simply the printed message, "I miss you." And that was all.

Spock looked at the terse missive. I miss you. Spock studied it for over a minute, and could not come up with any logical reason for sending such a note. It seemed at best an unnecessary communication. Did not Nyota clearly state as much in her previous message, sent earlier that same day? Mentally, Spock calculated the ship time of each composition. Nyota's first message had been sent during her lunch break; this was becoming a pattern with her. But the second would have been sent at approximately 0200 Saturday morning. Considering Nyota's habits, it was unlikely that she should have been up at that hour, and even more so for her to be active and sending illogical messages into the night. The image was vaguely disturbing.

Spock reviewed his facts. He was not being summoned back to duty. That had been his initial concern when he'd seen the two messages in close succession; an early recall remained the most likely reason for the Enterprise to attempt to contact him prior to the expiration of his agreed-upon leave time. However (to his undisguised relief), this had proved to not be the case. Furthermore, nothing of an urgent nature had occurred onboard that required his attention; Nyota's previous message made that clear. Yet she had felt the need to send this extra communication to him.

I miss you.

The words stood stark upon his screen, demanding a response. Yet what would be the proper response to give? His regular messages must reassure her as to his safety, so she could have no cause to worry there. His very attentiveness to her communications must reassure her emotionally— should it not? While what he was doing was essential to his well-being, he did regret that he must be parted from her for the duration. Yet she understood this— clearly had understood it from the beginning, as she had staunchly supported him taking a leave that would help him, but could in no manner benefit her, save in the most tangential way through him returning in a more stabilized state.

Then, gradually, the truth clicked in Spock's brain. Slowly, he nodded.

Nyota did not need reassurance regarding his welfare; she knew or suspected that he would complete his stay without difficulties. Neither did she require emotional reassurance of his regard for her. That (thankfully) she took as a given. But she missed him— missed Spock. She missed their talks, their evenings together, the comfort of having him at hand. It was her vulnerable human nature, not her logical mind, that had cried out into the night.

Spock contemplated what might constitute an adequate response. Certainly, his presence would quiet her, but he was deeply reluctant to cut his leave short. He was only now beginning to feel the healing effects that his exertions had begun to work upon his mind. He still had far to go before he could hold with equanimity the events of the last few weeks. And Nyota had not asked him to return. She comprehended the necessity of his actions, at least well enough to support them. But she had her own needs, which too demanded acknowledgement. Regrettably, she appeared to be struggling in his absence.

Spock bowed his head, considering. Nyota needed more than reassurance; she needed him. With fully half his leave time still before him, Spock could not give her that. What he must do is give her as much of himself as he could, considering that they were lightyears apart.

He composed himself to record. As was his wont on this sabbatical, he left the video off. But this time, his decision did not spring from a rationalization to conserve power, nor from an attempt to hide his primitive appearance. He could easily have dressed in his uniform for the communication if he wished. But that would seem to him to be a fabrication, presenting a false image of his activities here. What Nyota needed at this time, more than anything else, was honesty.

Spock was uncomfortable with intimacy. He was not certain he did it well. Yet it occurred to him that his voice alone would be better able to convey the intensity of the thoughts he wished to relate. It was a risk for him; Spock did not like to commit feelings to record. The thought of recording such a personal communication, coupled with his facial expression, was too inhibiting. But he could do this much for her— give her a whisper from the dark, something to play to herself in the silence of her quarters when the nights stretched long.

He pushed the control.

Galileo to Enterprise

Stardate 2258.144

My dearest Nyota,

I ran through the darkness tonight. For hour upon hour, I knew only the feel of the wind upon my skin, the pounding of my heart, the deep and measured rise and fall of my chest. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the beat of the ground beneath my feet, hear the hollow ringing of my footsteps, experience the peculiar give of the fungi that coats this part of the world in such abundance.

The air was warm. On Vulcan, the thin atmosphere often produced cold nights, even freezing temperatures in the desert. Here, the air enfolds one like a soft blanket, holding in the heat of day and releasing it gently, hour after hour, like a considerate friend as one flees along beneath the stars.

Emagious III has no moon. The omnipresent clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the jeweled face of the night with delicate, lacy fingers. Yet the stars shone through, sometimes in fleeting glimpses, sometimes strongly enough that I could see, clear as daylight, the sharp outline of my shadow repeatedly stretching out and bunching below my feet.

I set down yesterday in a forest such as I have never seen. The stalks of the fungi, which appears similar to Agaricomycotina, are as wide as the Galileo. The flattened tops, a couple of meters thick, towered twenty meters above my head. The stems are so tough they resisted my attempts to hack off a piece for analysis. I was reluctant to turn to my phaser, so I let them be.

The place in which I now find myself is, as a human might say, a wonderland. I find its alien composition deeply compelling. I wandered far, starting at daybreak yesterday, through the mycotic forest and onto the plains beyond, where the tree-shapes gave way to soaring brackets and arches of tough, fungal shoots. A quick-running stream gurgled in and around the fleshy stems. About midday I found a pool sufficiently deep to bathe in. Afterwards, I climbed upon a large, flattened pileus, in shape like a lily pad, but over 3 meters in diameter. As I sat there cross-legged, meditating while the sun dried my skin, I suddenly recalled some of the stories my mother had told me in my youth— about pointy-eared elfs who danced among the toadstools and spirited away human children. And here now I was in truth, an "elf" in every apparent manner save size, squatting upon an enormous mushroom cap. I wonder what my mother's reaction would have been, could she have seen the sight. It pleases me to think the situation would have amused her.

The thick pads proved to be tough and inedible, but among the stalks I found some pale shoots about the size of my finger. These provided basic nourishment, but they are bitter. I brought some back to the shuttlecraft with me, where I intend to analyze their chemistry more thoroughly. One curious property, which I only discovered hours later, is that they glow palely in the dark. Of more immediate importance to myself is my belief that they will greatly complement the taste of a black tuber I unearthed some days ago in a region several hundred kilometers to the east. I shall run my tricorder over them for a detailed analysis, and then chop my specimens into slices. Tossed with the black tuber, they should make a satisfactory salad.

My dear Nyota, I regret that you cannot be here with me. You know— you always did understand— that this is a journey I must undertake, and undertake alone. It is early to make predictions, and I have learned to be cautious, but I venture to say, I believe the experience is unfolding as intended. I still have far to go— perhaps farther even than you, my dearest Nyota, can appreciate. But I feel, despite the higher gravity, that a weight is lifting off my shoulders. I do not know whether the healing process will take weeks or years, but at least I have taken these first few steps. My only regret, ashayam, is that you must be on your own while I make this slow journey of recovering myself.

I trust that all is well aboard the Enterprise. I am gratified that my replacement shows such enthusiasm for spectral analysis. I will attach a detailed list of the settings that I used for the most recent analyses I performed for this sector. I hope Ms. Mallory finds them useful, although it sounds from your description as if she might have already solved the problem for herself by the time this message reaches you. Please inform the captain that much efficiency might have been gained had he permitted me to leave her detailed notes.

You are in my thoughts often, ashayam. Never doubt that, my dear one— not even for a moment.

Your own,

Spock