Enterprise High
being a high school AU of ST: XI
with many hijinks
and much angst
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Chapter Forty-Seven: Whom Gods Destroy
x
On their last night in Risaka, Kirk and Spock finally went to the geode club across the street. Parts of it were a letdown ("I can't believe this place is actually called Geode, how uncreative is that?"), but other parts were definitely not.
"This is just unnecessarily pretty," said Kirk. He and Spock were standing in the very middle of the club on its purple polished floor, looking up at the buttresses of shining rock above them. "I feel like we got trapped in… geology."
Spock looked at him.
"I mean, because we're actually in a massive geode!" Kirk protested, gesturing. "Might as well hang out on the edge of a volcano."
"Except the heat from a volcano—"
Kirk turned in a whirl and put his finger over Spock's lips. "Don't pick fights, honey," he said, leaning in close, his grin almost feral. "Let's dance."
It was, as always, an exercise in futility. Kirk danced happy circles around Spock, who bobbed his head occasionally but otherwise merely tapped his fingers and feet in rhythm. Kirk had been deeply frustrated by this the first night, but had given up after Spock, irritated, had yelled, "Simply because I do not 'groove freely,' as you say, does not mean I am lacking! Please respect my wish not to dance!"
Kirk had muttered, "I never said 'groove freely,' the fuck does that mean," stuck his tongue out at Spock, and stopped harassing him.
It was a luxuriant pause. Spock could find stillness—sometimes by being it—in any place he went. Their roles seemed so clear-cut in places like these. Kirk was a planet that orbited Spock's fixed sun.
As it was their last night, Spock ordered a mudslide at the bar and found himself waltzing with Kirk ten minutes later. They cut an archaic swath through the golden crowd, feet boxing the one-two-three patterns of the Viennese. Spock leant Kirk in a dip, vice versa in a turn. No moment was alone; they were all one part of time together. When their cheeks touched, they had always been touching. When their hands clasped, they had always been clasping.
There was a moment, when Kirk was leading, that stood out from the others. Kirk had turned to check his periphery and Spock's eyes went to Kirk's mouth, lips flat in concentration. In a second that stretched, he pondered. What is a kiss if not a compliment, a word of thanks, an expression of sincere regard? No. A kiss is many things, Spock thought. When I am sure what I want a kiss to be, I will give it. Not before that time.
When Kirk looked back, it was into Spock's fathomless eyes.
x
Bones, Sulu, and Chapel were underneath a picnic table in Chapel's back yard. Scotty was asleep on top of the table with the plans for the new Enterprise covering his eyes. Chekov, sitting near the door, had his tongue sticking out of his mouth and was drawing the scene. Uhura, trying to learn how to juggle, kept having to snatch the various things she was throwing out of the air above Scotty's prone and gently snoring form.
Chapel wrinkled her nose as she passed the joint she, Bones, and Sulu were sharing back to Bones. "That's not good," she said frankly to Sulu. "That's really not good. It tastes like there's poison ivy in that."
"You'd be dead if that were the case," said Bones. "Don't y'know—"
"Shut up, I took the smoke inhalation course," Chapel sighed. "I'm just saying—I'm disappointed."
Sulu shrugged. "Spring's a tough time of year, yo. Everybody wants stress relief and I'm not willing to pay out the ear for it."
"Well I am," said Chapel, producing a wad of credits and pushing them into Sulu's lap. "For God's sake, bring me some actual Cannabis indica next time."
Sulu shrugged and tucked the credits into his wallet. "Your wish," he said gently.
Uhura came over and looked beneath the table. "They're late," she said accusatorily.
"Search me," Bones shrugged, blowing smoke in her face. "Text 'em or somethin'."
Uhura sighed and pulled out her phone. She was scrolling through her contacts when completely out of the blue, she pictured a page in her great-grandmother's ancient photo album, the one that was in bio-storage in their attic. It was a collage of Uhura's grandmother, Hasa, and Uhura's mother, Itidal, shopping in Dar es Salaam, reading, posing at a graduation, making ugali, playing video games. Uhura remembered asking her father about the captions under the pictures. They were not in Swahili.
"That is Nyamwezi, your mother's language," Chane said. He had gotten a Nyamwezi dictionary down from the shelf and taught Uhura a few words and phrases. One of those phrases was a proverb that went: Mwikuwisa kalilo moto, konsi kakawule; If you hide hot embers, the smoke will betray you.
Uhura carried the hard drives with her at all times, now, in case she ever had a realization like this one. She excused herself distractedly and went inside. On Chapel's couch, she plugged one of the two remaining hard drives into her PADD. The password entry blinked patiently at her.
kalilo; embers, Uhura typed. konsi; smoke.
The password entry faded. Uhura selected the single photo contained on the drive, her heart beating powerfully.
It was one of the photos from the photo album, the one of Hasa and Itidal making ugali. Uhura put her hands over her mouth, trying to breathe. Then she gave up all pretense of calm, ran outside, and broke the news.
x
The second chip was in the pantry and necessitated Bones cracking his knuckles and pulling boards off of shelves. Sure enough, under the cornmeal, Uhura spotted a flash of green: the second chip, embedded in a plastic case.
She plugged it in. Reading over her shoulder, everybody read:
Nyota, you are doing well. Please locate and insert the final datachip. —Itidal.
Uhura had driven, madly, with the rest of the hoverclub (excepting Kirk and Spock, who were late) in her back seat, to her house, where they had torn upstairs and unearthed the album. Behind the photo of Hasa and Itidal making ugali was a tiny plastic baggie of cornmeal, ugali's main ingredient. Chane, who was super organized, always kept the same foods in the same place in the kitchen, and had for years. They had thundered downstairs, ransacked the pantry, and Uhura had finally deputized Bones to break things.
"Okay, so both clues have relied on your knowledge of Tanzanian languages, so far," said Sulu. "I don't think we can help you with this at all, especially since the second clue was hidden away."
"How could mom possibly think I could know that saying?" Uhura said, pacing. They were gathered in the living room, discussing the events of the past hour. "Dad taught it to me, not her."
"Maybe it was somethin' she used to say," suggested Bones.
"Maybe it was somezing she told him to say," said Chekov knowingly.
"Yeah, it doesn't sound like something she'd say a lot," said Chapel, picking at her fingernails. "I mean, how often does one talk about hiding stuff?"
"Well, normal families have nice, fucked-up secrets," said Uhura. "So, you know, a lot."
"Your definition of normal concerns me."
"Does your—and I don't know if this is an appropriate question, but—does your family have many nice, fucked-up secrets?" said Sulu.
"I mean, your standard addictions and arrests and possible infidelity that I don't actually know anything about because I am smart enough not to want to scar my brain," said Uhura. "But how is a language also a family secret?"
"These chips are hidden. That's secret. And they're hidden with language only you know."
"Only dad and me," Uhura corrected. "He knows a lot more Nyamwezi than I do."
Scotty's eyes narrowed. "What's your father's language?"
Uhura stared at him. "What?"
"Your mother—her family was Nyamwezi. Is your father o' th' same ethnic group?"
"No, he's Igbo."
Chekov frowned. "There goes the Tanzanian connection."
"I don't know any Igbo because dad specializes in Swahili literature—I mean, I've never heard him speak it, and all his parents speak to me, and each other, is English."
"Ah, th' wonders o' colonialism," Scotty sighed.
"Why does your dad specialize in Swahili literature if he's not from that area?" asked Chapel curiously.
Uhura shrugged. "He likes it best."
"So you don't know any Igbo," she pressed.
"None," said Uhura, shaking her head. "I mean, I think I could recognize someone speaking it, because I just—know that much about African languages. But I don't know any words at all."
"What else did your mother speak?" Bones asked.
"English, Swahili, Nyamwezi… French. And some Russian."
Chekov perked up. "Your mother spoke Russian?"
"Poorly," laughed Uhura. "Also, conversational Mandarin, Unified Korean, and Arabic."
"Hm," said Sulu. "Arabic is spoken relatively commonly in Dar es Salaam, right? And that's where your mom's from."
"Yes, that's where she learned it; she went to an Islamic school there," said Uhura.
"What did you speak at home?" Sulu asked.
"English," said Uhura.
"Okay, rank the languages in the order you spoke them…"
They spent too much of the next few hours discussing languages. Uhura, happy about a chance to discuss her own proficiency with languages, had a blast, but she realized that people were getting bored around dinnertime. Also, Kirk and Spock hadn't yet tried to contact them.
x
Kirk and Spock had staggered back to the hotel in the early morning to be awoken at six, only a couple of hours later. Kirk groaned and pulled the pillow over his head when somebody beat on his door. A second later, it was snatched off of him, and he opened his eyes to Spock's face.
"Our flight has been rescheduled," said Spock. "Get up. Right now. We must leave in ten minutes."
"What?" Kirk squawked, throwing himself out of bed and staggering around, pulling on boxers and jeans and shirts. "When? Why?"
"Do you recall the baby Leonard delivered in Los Angeles? He has been kidnapped."
Kirk almost fell over his suitcase. "Are you serious? On," he said at the TV. The first news channel he came to was discussing… a strike in Qatar?
Spock cleared his throat. "Due to the… sensitive nature of this event, the kidnapping has not yet been made public."
"You mean, due to the fact that his father is a Romulan Counsel and his mother is the Vice President of the Federation."
"Yes," said Spock.
"Okay," said Kirk. "Okay. Um. Why did you tell me that? I mean, if this is sensitive information—"
Spock shrugged. "Father felt it polite to explain to me why we needed to leave unexpectedly, and you are the soul of discretion."
"Was that a joke? I think that was a joke," muttered Kirk, stuffing pants into his bag.
Eleven minutes later, they were in a taxi to the spaceport. Sarek enclosed himself in a comm bubble for the ride, leaving Kirk to quiz Spock about what exactly had happened.
"Leave no detail unturned," said Kirk seriously. "We're thinking this is Nero, right?"
"He has been put forward as a suspect," Spock acknowledged. "However, we are perhaps the only ones that are truly suspicious. Apparently resistance to the idea of a Rihanh resurgence continues."
"Because nothing can be easy," Kirk sighed. "Okay, to be fair, is there any evidence against Nero? I mean—does anyone know anything about his whereabouts?"
"Not as far as I have picked up," said Spock. He glanced at his father, who was thoroughly immersed in a conversation. "I have been… monitoring sensitive communications."
Kirk's eyes went wide. "Spying?"
"The good of the many…"
Kirk rolled his eyes. "Okay, so, Vulcan ethics go out the door fast. Good to know."
"Every time we have failed to take serious precautions concerning Nero, tragedy and violence has occurred," said Spock sharply. "I will employ the necessary means to protect those to whom I am emotionally attached."
"Right," said Kirk. "Sorry."
Rikasa faded behind them as the taxi left the city. Great walls of blue trees arose on either side of the car, and the vast, perfect sky held a halo of clouds around the reddish sun, just rising over the mountains to the east. Kirk and Spock sat across from each other in the taxi's long passenger lounge, leaning into each other's space at complimentary angles.
Sarek disengaged his comm bubble as the taxi pulled in to departures. Kirk hastily mentioned something about the upcoming AP tests, but he wasn't sure Sarek was fooled. As they walked into the spaceport, Kirk considered that Sarek had just as much motivation for capturing Nero as the rest of the hoverclub. Still, though, he was a senior ambassador and certainly wouldn't breach security for something like revenge.
x
The trip home was discomfiting. Once on the ship, Kirk couldn't stop thinking about the fact that a baby had been taken. He ended up reading the whole Wikipedia article on the Lindbergh kidnapping during takeoff, then got a little nauseous again and broke out in hives, but that turned out to be the result of his allergy to Antarean hagalabarafawava fruit, which had been in the cereal he'd been served when they first sat down in the space ship. The ship they were on this time had an in-flight doctor that apparently never blinked despite appearing to be a human, and it kind of creeped Kirk out to have someone staring intently at him while he was being thoroughly examined, tested, and hyposprayed, so after he left the doctor he spent a lot of time flipping through the in-flight magazine and twitching.
Spock, meanwhile, was having a minor crisis of conscience due to the fact that he knew his father's encryption key. Vulcans didn't exactly hand their encryption keys around, but they were unlikely to change them if another Vulcan accidentally stumbled upon it, as fellow Vulcans—and especially family members—were, quite reasonably, considered to be trustworthy. So Spock spent a lot of time flipping through his chemistry textbook and reviewing his old worry that he was somehow lesser because he was half-human. After all, with his father's encryption key, Spock could access his father's personal files, which would contain access codes to very, very, very top secret databases owned by the Federation, Earth, and Vulcan. He could, he realized, find out quite a lot about the Rihanh and Nero without having to go through the library systems, which would, of course, alert the likes of Miko again.
With his father's encryption key he could find Nero and revenge his mother.
It was awful trying to keep all of those feelings in, and below the surface. Embarrassment and hatred and worry coursed through him. He had never had so little focus while holding a textbook. The chemical formulas slipped through his head, letters and numbers twisting into red-hot words that stabbed at him. He wanted, so badly, to track Nero like a dog, to hunt him down and kill him with his own hands, and yet he felt such shame at thinking this, such horror that he could be capable of even conceiving of such violence and strong emotion. He felt unworthy and confused and sick.
By the time the ship landed at SFO, Spock felt quite sure he was going to throw up. He realized that he hadn't looked at Kirk all flight, and when he did—
It was stupid and un-Vulcan-like and a small part of him felt even more shame upon realizing, but as soon as he looked at Kirk, he felt better—he felt less. The roiling sickness inside of him calmed. The remaining bit of him that was still Vulcan and reasonable judged and judged, but everything else went quiet and soft and… happy. It was hateful. It was weak. It was wonderful.
And Kirk wasn't even looking at him. When he did, when Kirk glanced up from the book he was reading, saw Spock watching him, and smiled, Spock felt like he might just combust like a too-hot sun.
x
As soon as they had made it through Customs, Sarek swept off to Federation Headquarters to deal with the kidnapping, leaving Spock with his diplomatic transportation pass. Kirk promptly swiped it to hail down the nicest looking taxi he could find at the taxi stand.
"Is this necessary?" Spock said mildly as he poured himself into the memory-flex, heat-cooled, LED-lit, techscreen-equipped seat. The taxi was actually a repurposed holo-limo that had been upgraded. Spock had never realized that holo-limos could even be upgraded.
"Completely necessary," Kirk assured him, cracking open the minibar and pulling out a real, actual bottle of champagne. He surveyed the label critically, grinned, and popped the cork. Spock tried not to jump. "They even non-rep drinks! Although there is a replicator," Kirk added, peering into the depths of the minibar. "Oh wow, it's fully stocked."
Spock's seat was trying to eat him. It kept fluffing up and putting pillows around his head and massaging his legs. He was both supremely comfortable and slightly terrified. Thankfully, he found the off button just as Kirk handed him a flute of champagne.
"Thank you," said Spock gravely, and deposited the bubbly in a cup holder that actually had little hands. "You should never, ever be allowed to have diplomatic privileges."
"Which means that I'm going to really take advantage of the times when I do have them," Kirk said, settling back and crossing his legs. He looked utterly relaxed and confident, and Spock couldn't help but envy his human ease and coolness a little. "So. What's eating you? You looked constipated all flight."
"My digestive system is perfectly healthy," said Spock sincerely. "In fact—"
"Oh my God," said Kirk, holding up his hands. "No. Never mind. Don't go there. Let me rephrase that question because I forgot how fucking literal you are. Your emotional state seems unstable. Or disturbed. Or something."
"How can you tell?" said Spock, perturbed.
Kirk just looked at him. "I know you," he said simply.
Spock gave him that. "I have encountered a moral dilemma," he said. "Do you remember how I told you that I have been 'monitoring sensitive communications'? I merely meant that I have been paying close attention to the communications my father receives from the Federation, Starfleet, and other species organizations or planets that he takes within my auditory range. I have not, as you implied, been immoral in my surveillance procedures. However." Spock took a deep breath and sat up a little in the chair, which was more difficult than it should have been. Kirk was watching him closely.
"However, I am in possession of something that could greatly help us. Because I am his son, my father has never concealed his encryption key from me."
"What?" said Kirk. His eyes had gone wide. "Nobody is ever supposed to share their encryption key!"
"This is true," Spock acknowledged. "In fact, it is law that a person's Federation-assigned key never be known by any individual, even a family member, who is not authorized to know it by the Federation. Vulcans, however, trust each other deeply, and Vulcan trust goes beyond even Federation legal codes." Spock pushed his glasses up. "My dilemma should be obvious."
"Yeah," said Kirk slowly. "Of course."
They were quiet for a long time. Spock watched Kirk thinking. It was an oddly transparent process. He could see Kirk weighing the advantages and disadvantages and the implications.
"I think," said Kirk at last and with great gravity, "that you should not use it except in times of extreme need. Consider it a weapon. Only as a last resort, with provocation, and such. If we feel that another person will be put in danger because of the actions of Nero or the Rihanh—then you should use it."
Spock nodded as if he had been considering this exact route all along. "Yes," he said, putting his dreams of revenge firmly behind him. "Yes, of course."
x
The taxi dropped them at the Vulcan Embassy. Kirk had to be persuaded to leave the champagne. They were going to study—they really were—but Kirk ordered warm milk on the replicator, and they sipped it quietly and talked on the couch, and then the sun was the calm yellow of the end of the day, and I-Chaya was curled up on the couch next to Spock…
When Kirk woke up, it was utterly dark, and Spock's head was on his shoulder. All he could see to his right was a thatch of straight black hair. I-Chaya had, characteristically, stretched out so that he took up an entire two-thirds of the couch and was nevertheless mostly in Spock's lap. Kirk tried to shift because his arm was definitely asleep, but he had to stop when Spock made a very small and unhappy noise and reached up and grabbed Kirk's shirt collar, bunching it in his fist.
It was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He was suddenly and completely awake. And he couldn't move. At all. Because whenever he did move Spock's fist just got tighter and Kirk's eyes got bigger and bigger in his head. I-Chaya snuffled in his sleep.
He sat there, still as solid wood, for what felt like eight lifetimes. It was so quiet that he could hear Spock's heart beating. Really, though, Kirk was only awake for ten minutes before Spock, whose legs were apparently hurting under the weight of I-Chaya's head and shoulders, let go of Kirk's shirt to stretch and kick I-Chaya off his lap.
Kirk straightened his shirt hurriedly. Spock, who was still bleary, didn't seem to realize what position he'd been in. Kirk got up and went to get some water. By the time he returned to the living room, Spock was fully awake and had turned on some lights. Spock didn't seem to remember how he had been sleeping. Kirk wasn't entirely sure if he was happy about that or not. It bore consideration.
They took I-Chaya into the gardens. It was fantastically gorgeous: most of the flowers and plants were in bloom, even a few of the Vulcan transplants, which somehow looked as if they were from Vulcan. Of course, it was obvious that they were, as they were planted in sand or rock, but something about the structure of the alien foliage was Vulcan as well: the flowers were utilitarian, the bushes hardly looked as if they needed trimmed. Kirk felt himself relaxing again. Which was a mistake, because about two seconds after they let I-Chaya off his electro-leash, he had disappeared behind a tree and snuffled out another of the garden's visitors.
"Sa-kuglasu," said a mild voice in Vulcan-accented Standard. "And Mr. Kirk. What a pleasure to see you both tonight."
It was T'Pring's voice.
"Ko-kuglasu," Spock replied formally. He had straightened considerably. T'Pring emerged from behind a miniaturized redwood. Kirk had to try not to gasp.
T'Pring was dressed in the most gorgeous dress he had ever seen. It was orange and golden and pink, tiered and tailored perfectly to fit her slight form. She looked like a china doll. Her hair was formed in perfect arches around her head, and Vulcan-style jewelry simply dripped from her. I-Chaya bounded beside her, enthusiastic drool dripping from his fangs as if to say, "Look who I found! Aren't you proud!"
"Please excuse my appearance," said T'Pring, walking towards them with tiny steps. "There was a reception tonight for the Cardassian ambassador." She wrinkled her nose delicately. "A thoroughly unpleasant being."
"I am sure," said Spock diplomatically. Kirk looked between him and T'Pring. They hadn't taken their eyes off of each other yet.
Kirk felt suddenly cold.
"You returned early from Risa," T'Pring said. Had she blinked yet? Kirk's mind went into overdrive. What was he missing? There was something going on here, there had to be.
"Yes," Spock acknowledged. "My father was alerted to urgent business. May I compliment you on your sai-vai?" He paused. "Ton kaluk-mokov…"
"Do not be rude," said T'Pring. "Mr. Kirk does not speak Vulcan. Yes, you remember these earrings, do you not?" She cupped the pearlescent earrings that cascaded from her ears. "Your Kah-ka gift to me." For the first time she looked at Kirk. "Excuse me," she said. "Kah-ka, loosely translated, means engagement."
There was a rather long moment in which T'Pring stared at Kirk, Kirk stared at T'Pring, and Spock, in dawning horror, realized that he had never told Kirk about his engagement to T'Pring.
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