"Your execution is improving, Dr. Chapel. Timing, posture and balance have reached an adequate level to join our primary education classes."
It was a high compliment she recognized it immediately. Still the idea of being surrounded by a dozen or so pre-teen Vulcan children while she learned wasn't exactly appealing.
She nodded her head slightly, as M'Benga had instructed her and responded with the ubiquitous, "I am honored."
The lithe Vulcan woman had been highly recommended as the best and most tolerant of teachers. Her Terran clientele had been limited to the aggressive types who studied defense arts wherever they were. Every planet had a defensive art and inevitably there were those who wanted to learn exotic ways to kick, hit and inflict pain.
T'rees was not a high master, but a simple teacher. She had the patience for small children and humans. Christine had been only her second human student for D'vun Kaltor. Not many humans wanted to practice mathematically stringent meditative dance.
"Tomorrow. One hour earlier." She said by means of a dismissal and she exited the classroom.
Well, apparently it was decided.
Christine picked up her traveling cloak and covered herself for the trip outdoors. Initially she had thought the long dark coverings were just another indicator of the repressive nature of Vulcans. Then she had tried one in the heat of the sun.
Remarkably the dark fabric kept her cooler and protected her from the punishing radiation of the sun.
No, not the sun, she corrected herself. The sun was what Earth circled, this was T'Kuht. And she was a bitch at noon.
Life at the Academy was a Zen-like lesson in 'hurry up and wait'.
The clinic served the Starfleet duty personnel posted to Vulcan, the whole planet of Vulcan. Certainly Vulcan had healers with renowned abilities. But as a function of Starfleet's protocol any posting or station with more than 200 military personnel required a clinic with Starfleet physicians. Naturally it was a pretty low demand job and therefore highly coveted posting in Starfleet' medical community. You were stationed at arguably the best scientific institution in the known galaxy and all you had to do is ensure the health of some of Starfleet's finest.
With two doctors, someone was always on duty. But aside from sick call in the morning and various appointments during the day it was an on-call job.
Christine was learning more about molecular biology than she had ever dreamed of and she still had time for recreation.
If you could call D'vun Kaltor recreation.
Pulling the hood over her head she swept out into the sandy street.
Most days her routine was enough, but today she really wanted to have a loud roomful of Starfleet officers, a nice plate of steaming nachos and a tall pitcher of beer.
Well, maybe tomorrow. Today she was on duty and running late for an afternoon appointment. She picked up the pace along the dusty street that was the shortest route to her office.
Her office.
"Dr. Chapel's office." She said out loud with a smile, ignoring the curious glance of the woman she passed as she stepped up the stoop to the door.
God, how she loved to say it.
By the time she reached her office she had just enough time for a quick sonic shower.
She knew they were more efficient for cleaning, but she just never felt fresh after standing in front of that stupid waving light. She had taken to spritzing herself with a few sprays of water that had the barest of hints of lavender in it when she was done with her sonic shower. It wasn't the same as a good old-fashioned shower and the Vulcans really frowned on such a decadent waste, but it made her feel better. And she figured a cc or two of water was a fair compromise.
She could see that her patient was just arriving as she entered the sickbay, so she took a moment to glance over her incoming messages while he stripped off his own sun-shielding cloak and mad his way in.
She had a message from the Terran Ambassador. He was inviting her to dinner. The note said that Ambassador Sarek and Lady Amanda would also be in attendance.
Christine hesitated for a moment. Sarek and Amanda, she hadn't seen them since the trip to Babel. It would be nice to see them again.
But of course her thoughts drifted to Spock. She often wondered about him and how he was holding up.
Now that she was on Vulcan, she supposed she could just go and see him herself. But that seemed wrong somehow.
She had come to understand that the Masters of Gol seldom left the sanctuary once they had been awarded their Kolinahr title. And Gol was the hall of the Kolinahr. The absolute absence of emotion. This was not the arie'mnu that Surak had taught. This was the distancing and exorcising of the emotional demons that plagued all Vulcans.
It made sense to Christine that Spock had gone there. And she knew it would only be disruptive to go see him.
Still a part of her wanted to make sure he was okay, make sure he did not suffer as she had. She knew it was silly to think that way. Spock was...well Spock. He was damn near indestructible. Isn't that what Leonard had said? Or was that Jim?
It didn't matter.
One thing she had learned in the brief year since her ordeal was that you can never control the actions of others. Sometimes things happen and there's not a lot you can do except roll with the punches. Spock had chosen his path and he would be all right.
Dinner with the ambassador sounded nice. Not quite a pitcher of beer and nachos, but certainly a pleasant evening. She sent a brief cordial acceptance to his address and then beckoned her patient in to her office.
She smiled again...her office.
Another message arrived from the Vulcan Ambassador's office. It was from his mother. He opened it and read it impassively. It was no longer difficult to slide his eyes over the words, gleaning their true meaning, casting aside emotionalism.
His parent's health was well. They were on Vulcan for the rest of the season. He was once again invited to join them for a meal.
It had been more than a year since he had come to Gol and in that time he had not communicated with anyone but his mother. That was assuming the short cryptic messages could be construed as communication.
He responded shortly to direct questions and only in his own time.
It had taken some time for him to regain the control he saw necessary to begin to open the messages that he had received. Then he had not responded to them unless there had been a direct question.
He was not interested in any social interaction so he did not accept.
He simply deleted the message and returned to his studies.
It was necessary, it was logical. Any outside contact ran the risk of emotional entrapment and emotional response.
He had worked too hard for this tenuous control. He would not risk the familial interaction.
Not yet.