Chapter 1
The technical details of what Spock does to the dome's airlock go right over Stonn's head. As usual. But then there is a small burst of smoke coming out of the frame panel and suddenly the airlock cycles and they are finally out in the open.
Away from the aliens. Alone.
Spock turns, head tilted, body still, face emotionless. But with Spock the tells are always in the eyes and the hands, Stonn knows. He once saw him pass the eleventh chala with perfect, unaffected composure. It earned rare praise from their childhood instructor - but all the while his eyes were dancing with a secret mirth that only Stonn and T'Pring could see.
Now Spock's hands are held deceptively loose at his sides, and the sheer blank darkness in his eyes tell Stonn that there is a tsunami of emotion straining against that iron control.
Good.
"Explain," Spock says.
"I came here seeking you."
"I have no reason to listen to anything you have to say."
Stonn closes his eyes and his nostrils flare. The human colony here at David Echo Three clearly treasure the safety that their dome offers them. They are afraid of the heat and alienness of the half-terraformed desert around them. But Stonn is a Vulcan, and while he might not have been born on the sands of the Forge, he has viewed it as his adoptive homeland ever since his teens. The desert around them calls to him.
"I am not here to talk," he says.
In a deliberate gesture, he half turns his back to the other Vulcan and wrenches off his tunic. He ties it around his waist and spares a second to make certain that his boots are tight. Then he rises again, unclips the water skin from his belt and tosses it to Spock, who catches it automatically. Stonn can see that the small amount of patience that Spock's Surakisi upbringing has forced him to extend is fast disappearing. Instead of saying anything further, Stonn just turns and heads out towards the desert at a dead run.
The first fifty meters are the customary shock to his system, before his thoracic diaphragm pops. From one breath to the next his lung volume almost doubles, and as the glenaline starts pumping through his system he is fully, gloriously alive.
More importantly, he is, for a little while, faster than Spock.
Stonn knows that the most likely way for this to end is for Spock to catch up to him in the long run. He's not afraid - with exception of that insanity-laced afternoon three months ago at the sacred plateau outside ShiKahr, he's never been afraid of Spock. He is determined that he's not going to start now. He calculates that the most probable course of action is for Spock to throw him to the ground and pin him there, and then deliver a passive aggressive line before rendering Stonn unconscious with a tal derya, leaving him for a human ambulance to find.
That scenario does not interest him, and he needs to find a way to bolster the chances of alternative scenarios. Spock has no reason to listen to him - it follows that Stonn must provide him with a reason.
He hears his name, shouted.
He runs. One breath is enough for seven point four meters. He sails over the cracked, dry landscape, the semi-arid desert around him flat for now, but rising inexorably in a hill up to his left. He fixes it in his mind, lowers his head, and runs.
The first time he ever saw the two of them, they were running side by side on the outskirts of the Forge.
The night has enveloped the Vulcan desert with a crisp cold that finds its way into every part of his body. It is the antithesis of the blistering heat of the day. Stonn is from the south, close to the tempering sea, and the stark contrasts of this bleak northern landscape are almost irresistible to him.
The two Vulcans on the sand below could be straight from a pre-reformation poem. By Vulcan lore, a young woman and her bondmate can certainly run the Forge at night like, racing the lematyas, dressed in desert robes and with ahn-wohns slung about their shoulders. By Vulcan modern law, however, underage citizens have no business being in restricted areas with free-ranging predators without several different permits.
Stonn has the permits. They're appended to his official file - he may spend the night in the Forge to finish the poem he is writing, providing he does not leave his flyer. But the rules are always different for the Surakisi.
The desert is barren in one place, exploding with life in another. This is the birthplace of the Vulcan Academies, the most revered institutes of higher learning in the Federation. It's also the home of several ancient temples that might not even acknowledge that their planet is round. Life and destruction; science and mysticism. The lore and the law, existing side by side. The contradiction at the heart of Vulcan.
That's what's drawn him here. That's what he's been searching for with his poems. So what is he doing up here in the flyer, safe, observing?
He descends, and lands a few hundred meters before the pair. He waits by the flyer and fascination and expectation grow in his belly. He's never truly spoken with a Surakisi before, but of course they would be out here, dressed in desert robes, carrying ancient weapons... It fits all descriptions that he's heard and fantasies that he's had about the people from these old families that aliens always mistake for a noble or priest caste.
The two runners slow down and come to a stop by his flyer. He is very conscious of his modern jacket and pants.
"I am T'Pring ch'Dara," the female says, in High Vulcan. For her, it's one of her several mother tongues. For Stonn, it is a subject in school, taught in history class.
Her eyes are like a smoldering fire. She's the most captivating thing he's ever seen.
"Stonn," he replies. It comes out almost in a whisper and realizes he has no idea what to say next.
She considers him a moment and then exchanges a look with her companion.
"This is my bondmate," she continues, a touch of adolescent pride in her voice that she is quite unable to mask. "Spock."
Stonn's eyes widen at the name and he manages to wrench his gaze from T'Pring to the young man beside her. He's strong, lithe, and looks remarkably... Vulcan.
It would be illogical for T'Pring to supply his family name.
After all, everyone knows Spock. At fourteen, he is already a legend.
Author's note: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, and what you think will happen in future chapters. There are 7 chapters planned all in all, and most of them are already written.
