Chapter 23

Routine is useful. The universe is routine, and, where it isn't, there is always something to be learned. Chaos is simply a series of patterns that are not yet obvious, but it all devolves, eventually, into numeric predictability. Suns rise. Planets revolve. Fusion quietly eats out the heart of every star and electrons dance a perpetual waltz through the wastes of atomic space. It's not quite the same thing as rising every day at seven minutes to six and setting the synthesizer to a four minute cycle that allows adequate time beneath the sonics before repairing to a stool beneath the window for a nutritionally-balanced breakfast as the chronometer chimes the hour, but the principle is the same. Routine. It's the order beneath turmoil. It serves to iron out the glitches. It's a scientist's refuge.

He managed three hours and forty-four minutes of sleep last night, and a meditative trance that lasted for a further one hour, fourteen. On the whole, this is better than expected, although it's too early to tell if it's part of a general improvement or an anomaly caused by the erosion of his mind's resistance over the past few wakeful nights. Eventually, this will start to become a serious problem, but not yet: a certain amount of tolerance remains for now. A brief survey of his internal processes reveals sub-optimal functionality, but nothing to cause concern; he must simply endeavor to extend his afternoon meditations by approximately fifteen minutes, and this can be achieved in today's schedule.

Dawn is a thin line of gray on the horizon, chasing the late stars from the sky and staining the edges of low, wispy clouds in slate and silver. Spock sips from a glass of chilled water as he scrolls through his unread messages: a request for information from the leader of a research team on Epsilon Phi Pictoris; overnight readouts from the Marin County array; seven invitations to a variety of conferences, three of whom want him as their keynote speaker; an updated agenda for Friday's faculty meeting; and five memos marked classified, which will have to wait until he's in the office. There's a blanket request from a colleague to the entire department for cover for his two early seminars; a gaudy, flashing banner informing him that he could already be a winner (four lucky contestants have won the holiday of a lifetime); and two messages from Kirk, three hours apart, both sent from his office.

Spock steels himself, and opens the first.

Have you seen this? demands the text, exasperation so familiar he can almost hear the aggrieved tone clamoring for acknowledgment among the uniform black letters. Ridiculous. What on earth will they come up with next? Below it, Spock recognizes the grainy image of a spreading, orange-flowered shrub with which he has, regrettably, had the opportunity to become acquainted over the past two weeks, and which he hoped might pass Kirk by unnoticed. Exterus Aurentiacofloris Enterprisii is its newly-designated moniker; apparently, there was talk of naming it after Sulu, but the Lieutenant demurred.

It is ridiculous, certainly; not least because the inhabitants of the planet on which the seeds were gathered already have a name for the plant in question, and it has been studiously omitted in the scramble to confer glory in any manner possible. But it is, he supposes, no more ridiculous than the Human propensity for imposing their own designation on worlds that have been known as something entirely different to their native population for much longer than Earth has had the means to know that they existed. Possibly, his own people have something to answer for there. They ought to have insisted on T'Khasi at First Contact.

He voices a soft command to the computer, and Kirk's message closes. There's no real fire in it; more a sort of unfocused pique borne of the fact that he's had many years' distance separating him from the by-products of his brilliance, and cohabitation with them now does not come easily. Spock doesn't pretend to understand this determination to reverence and worship, but his Captain's reaction to it seems legitimate.

The second message was sent at 0008 hours, during the period in which Spock was, rather self-consciously, focusing on the darkness behind his eyelids in a manner that Amanda has always insisted will eventually induce sleep. Message from Ciana, it says brusquely. Torelius meeting moved up to 12th. Can no longer attend (offworld 11th and 12th). Can you send your report to her, not me, please. See you later, yes? JTK.

Fatigue weaves through the words like a heavy, sluggish river; it has always been Kirk's habit, when there is nobody on hand to correct his behavior, to over-exert himself and resist his body's rhythms, as though exhaustion were a symptom of a serious character flaw. Ciana, Spock suspects, is cut from the same cloth, and it seems likely that, together, they will inspire each other to feats of mental endurance that are entirely illogical and possibly dangerous.

See you later, yes? Spock sighs. Yes. Yes, because he can think of no valid reason to rescind the invitation, even if "invitation" hardly describes a throwaway comment exploded into overture and accepted with alacrity by an adventure-starved flag officer prepared to accept exploration-by-proxy as the nearest he can get to the stars right now. There are a number of very logical reasons why it's not a good idea to host an intimate evening in the observation array tonight, not least of which is the disquiet that has haunted Spock since their park-based expedition four nights previously, but none of them can be articulated without also giving voice to a series of events that they have tacitly agreed not to discuss. Certainly, it is unwise to spend time alone with his former Captain in an environment designed to mimic, as closely as possible, the conditions that brought them together in the first place. But Spock knows his friend: his first response to any vacillation now will be why?, and there is only one possible answer to that: because if we are to continue, we cannot acknowledge what has happened. Which, essentially, acknowledges what has happened, and defeats the purpose of the exercise.

He steeples his hands, elbows resting on the desk, and stares at the screen for a moment as he considers his reply. Then, with a sense of resignation, he instructs the computer to take a dictation.

"Commander Spock to Commodore James Kirk," he says, watching the words flare into life across the stark white screen with the familiar thrill of distress that his adrenal gland dumps into his bloodstream every time he sees that name. "Messages noted, time and date recorded, with no comment offered on the lateness of the hour at which the latter was received. It is my understanding that the shrub in question is intended for use as decoration at the ceremony, scheduled for ten solar days from this date, at which the crew of the Enterprise is to be honored in a manner consistent with Terran cultural tradition. My own opinion of same is on record, and I trust that no further observation is necessary at this time. Regarding the content of the second memorandum, I have noted the alteration to your earlier instructions and will submit my report directly to Vice Admiral Ciana as requested. Our excursion, scheduled for 2000 hours tonight, continues as agreed." He pauses; the conclusion to Terran missives has always given him hesitation. In vocal communication, Spock out has always been sufficient; were he communicating with fellow Vulcans, there is a series of complicated closing salutations to be used dependent on rank, gender, age, and level of familiarity, but they translate poorly into Standard, and not only because there is no cultural frame of reference from which to decode them. Regards is stilted; Kindest regards, counter-intuitively, is worse. He could follow Kirk's lead and sign off with only his initials, but the problem there is that the letter describing the opening syllable of his family name has no equivalent in any Human language, and he has long since given up on attempting to use it outside of Vulcan society. In the end, he settles for "Live long and prosper," secure in the knowledge that it will raise a smile at least, although for reasons that he prefers not to examine too closely.

He re-reads the text once, then instructs the computer to send it before he can reconsider. It is done.

Spock sits back in his chair, reclining just far enough to align himself with the gap in the trees that points directly out over the Gulf of the Farallones. The sun is struggling behind the horizon, frosting the lower sky with a thin band of iridescent pearl, and scattered, reticent birdsong from the Presidio heralds the approach of daybreak. He doesn't need to wonder if Kirk is awake, nor does he need the abrupt flare of light from his terminal screen, announcing the arrival of a new message, to confirm his suspicions.

Great. See you then. Talk throughout the day, no doubt. JTK.

Spock closes his eyes, sucks in a breath, and encourages the computer to file it away out of sight. When he cracks an eyelid, the message is gone.

Routine. Routine is useful. Routine imposes order on disorder, and this is important. He sets himself to the task of methodically filtering through his unopened mail.

Four of the seven conferences can be discarded immediately - three of them are far outside his field of expertise, and one of them, he thinks - hopes - is a joke. Of the remaining three, one conflicts with an existing commitment, but the other two are worthy of consideration. He makes a note to raise them at the faculty meeting. Dr Yin's request is not unreasonable, but it requires access to a series of files that are above his clearance level, and the doctor will have to seek these permissions himself. Professor Edgar's mail has already been answered by the Dean, in terms that will no doubt produce lengthy and bitter recriminations on Friday, and which would almost persuade Spock to volunteer his time this morning if there was any possibility that this might obviate the impending acrimony. Finally, Spock opens the readouts from Marin County, which he probably shouldn't have, given that everybody wants them and access is strictly controlled, but, if he must endure his unwanted celebrity, then it would be illogical not to put it to functional use. He scrolls through lengthy reams of computer feedback, lists of solar activity, interplanetary movement in hundreds of systems across dozens of sectors, course-tracking data from vessels both Federal and Other, subspace anomalies, gravit… Wait.

Subspace anomalies. Generally of interest, but in an abstract, academic manner, and only insofar as they have any bearing on his current research. His brain is accustomed to absorbing the information at speed and prompting further investigation only if one of several keywords is detected. None of these are present, which is why it has taken him a moment to process what he's seen.

Signal recorded, says the read-out. Continuous and unremitting. Source undetermined. Edit, 0332 - source confirmed: 43 Ilion Gamma. Nature of signal remains obscure.

Spock steeples his hands in front of his face and leans forward in his chair.

Fascinating.

-o-o-o-

The call comes later in the day than he expected, so perhaps there's actually something to Kirk's repeated assertions that, security clearance notwithstanding, Spock is better placed than his former CO to absorb the tides and eddies of information flowing through the 'Fleet. It's something to think about, at least.

"Spock here," he says, and, on the monitor, Kirk's face creases into a smile at the onslaught of scrupulous protocol.

"Yes, I can see that, Commander," he says, a grin twisting at the corners of his mouth. "I'm looking at you right now."

Spock blinks, slowly. It's a pointed gesture, and it causes the grin to deepen.

"Is there something I can do for you, Commodore?" he says.

Kirk's lips purse, though Spock knows from long experience that this is less to check his spreading amusement and more to give the appearance of having attempted to do so. He says, "I'm assuming you've had a memo from HQ by now regarding a signal received in the small hours of this morning? And the non-existence thereof?"

Spock folds his hands on his desk; assignment among the upper echelons of the service is beginning to impact upon Kirk's phraseology. "I am in receipt of a memo instructing me that any further communications are to be re-directed immediately to Operational Command, yes," he says.

"No doubt you informed Admiral Gant that, given that the signal has not ceased since it was first intercepted, the question of 'further communication' is moot?"

Spock says nothing. He did, in fact, draft a message to this effect.

The grin breaks free. "Good," says Kirk. "I find it exhausting when I have to play along with doublethink. I'm due in a meeting at 1700 to expound upon my thoughts of what the signal might mean. I have a few ideas. But I'm interested in yours."

Spock hesitates. "43 Ilion Gamma is large," he says slowly.

"Come on, Spock," says Kirk. "You don't need me to divulge classified information to work out where the signal was coming from. There are three inhabited worlds in that entire sector. How many of them are capable of subspace communication?"

A slow nod. "Has Professor Sorelan been contacted?"

"That's classified, I'm afraid," says Kirk, which is as good as a confirmation. It is certainly intended to be taken as such.

"As I understand it," says Spock carefully, "The circumstances under which the Federal delegation were ejected from Ilion VII were unambiguous. They want no further involvement with the Federation."

The grin dies, replaced by the dark steel of command. Kirk says, "Yes, that was my understanding too. Think they've reconsidered?"

"It seems…" says Spock, "…unlikely."

"It does, doesn't it?" Kirk curls one hand into a fist and gently strikes the table. "So. Do we assume that we've done something else to offend them? I'm not entirely sure how, of course, but, then again I'm not sure where we went wrong the first time, either."

"It is possible that they are requesting Federal aid," says Spock.

Kirk glances up, eyebrow raised. "Really? It seemed to me as though they'd decided quite firmly that there was nothing we had to offer that they could possibly want."

Spock acknowledges this with a nod. "True. But perhaps circumstances have left them with no alternative. The region is sparsely populated, as you say; it is conceivable that they have no other recourse to outside assistance."

Kirk sucks in a breath, releases it with a gentle puff. "That's going to be a hard sell to Command. They're not Federal citizens. Quite explicitly not, in fact."

Spock tilts his head, considering. "There are precedents."

"There are." Kirk's eyebrows twitch laconically. "Very few of them in which the other party has told the Federation quite so unequivocally to go to hell, though."

"This is true," says Spock.

Kirk glances up, meets his stare, holds it for a long moment. "You think we should do it," he says at last.

Spock does not look away. "I believe that the Federation has failed its own ideals if we do not," he says.

The grin returns, flashing sudden warmth in his friend's eyes. "So do I," says Kirk. He leans back in his chair. "If that's what they want. Maybe they just want to shout at us some more. Let's not rule that out."

"I have not," says Spock.

The fisted hand unfurls, flattening out to lay palm down across Kirk's desk. He says, "I'm not sure what value this meeting has in any case. It makes no sense to talk in possibilities, before anyone's had a chance to consult with the one person in Federal space who might have some kind of insight." A sly upwards glance. "Whose name is not subject to discussion."

"Naturally."

A wide smile. "There's a chance I might be a little late this evening, depending on how long this goes on. Admiral Komack is flying in from Jupiter Station specifically to attend." A pause, to allow Spock to draw his own conclusions from this particular piece of information. "If it looks like it's going to be later than 2100, I'll have my Yeoman com you."

Spock nods, but says nothing. If Kirk picks up on the nuance of his silence, he gives no indication.

"Until this evening, then," he says. "Kirk out."

-o-o-o-

Think you could smuggle a Commodore into the imaging suite some time? It was the unspoken longing beneath those words that Spock answered, vulnerability layered over with bravado. He has been aware for some time that this impulse exists within him, but he is, as yet, only able to identify it after the fact. It is… inconvenient.

The movement of the sun across the Terran sky are immaterial against the vast backdrop of galactic space, and the sensor array does not typically observe planetary constants such as day and night. Spock himself has spent more than one productive evening sequestered among the computer banks, filtering through infinity in search of the next level of questions that might bring his current answers into focus. It is approaching 2045 as he makes his way through the serpentine webs of corridors that lead towards the imaging suite, but they are far from deserted: he counts six separate research groups, cloistered in doorways and talking animatedly in the energetic sotto voce of the single-minded, weaving through the technicians and the science track cadets in pursuit of academic excellence, laughing by water coolers with red-rimmed eyes that speak of too many nights spent hunting the unfamiliar. And throughout the river of science blues are dotted small islands of red and, occasionally, gold: the men and women on whose orders the wheels of Starfleet turn. Spock wonders how many of them are here because of the meeting that has delayed his friend's arrival.

Kirk is waiting outside the doors to Suite 5-A, hands clasped behind his back as he considers a framed image of the Andromeda Galaxy, captured with primitive equipment in the decades before Humankind had ventured beyond their home system. He turns at the sound of Spock's footfall and a smile lights his face, flashing warmth into eyes that are dulled by exhaustion.

"There you are," he says, and, though his voice is cheerful, it's laced with the strain of the past hours.

Spock draws to a halt some three feet away from him. It's too far by Human standards of personal space, but his body makes the decision for him and there's no way to surreptitiously correct it once it's done.

"My apologies for the delay, Commodore," he says. "I had expected to allow more time for your arrival."

An arched eyebrow, directed momentarily into the gulf that separates them, takes care of Kirk's objections to the distance. But the smile does not fade. He says, "Don't mention it." A brisk, utilitarian shake of the head. "I left the conference room with indecent haste as soon as I had the opportunity. I believe there are people in this organization who talk just for the sake of hearing their own voice." Frustration ghosts across his face, darkening his eyes, but he masters it quickly. "Never mind. I'm not even sure why I'm still surprised."

"The meeting was unsatisfactory?" says Spock, which is extraneous, but seems to be required.

It prompts a half-hearted smile and a breath of laughter. "You could say that." Kirk gestures towards the door, ostensibly an effort to move the conversation away from the contents of a difficult evening, but tension lingers in the muscles of his arm and his face. "Shall we?"

Spock hesitates for the briefest moment, but it's passable as concern over his friend's wellbeing, and Kirk reads it as such.

"It's fine, really," he says as Spock presses his hand to the sensor pad on the wall, which blazes into life with a tinny, computerized welcome that they both ignore. The doors slide open on the sterile vacancy of an out-of-action imaging suite. "I believe Admiral Bernstein when she says that the situation is under control. It's just that…" A sigh, and he folds his hands behind his back and paces to the center of the room, feet clipping smartly against the hard tile surface. "I thought I was there as Deputy Chief of Xenorelations. And it turns out… I was there as the former Captain of a ship that orbited Ilion VII, once upon a time." A beat. "It was not the most productive meeting I've attended."

Spock steps into the darkened room and allows the doors to close softly behind him, sealing them inside a cocoon of warm, stale air, heavy with the scent of repeated and unbroken use throughout the day. He has already programmed the computer protocols: a series of uninhabited systems in Sector 120 seems like a safe enough prospect. The closest Enterprise ever passed was two years before Kirk came on board, and nothing in the intervening seven has persuaded Starfleet to take a closer look; the stars do not form the sorts of patterns that inspire Human poets to magnificent feats of verbal acrobatics; and, perhaps most importantly, they are not visible in the night sky above Vulcan. One of the planets - a D class dwarf in 2 Fornacis - has an unstable elliptical orbit that, while undeniably less than fascinating to anyone whose hobbies do not include gravitational physics, provides a handy alibi in terms of excusing Spock's choice of such a pedestrian starfield. It is eminently suitable for his purposes this evening.

Standing by the control panel, it is possible to hear the soft hum of banked duotronic energy whispering through the circuitry, waiting for instruction. Run simulation? wonders the text across the screen, but, instead of confirming the request, Spock crosses quietly to where Kirk stands, staring absently at the far wall.

He says, "It would be impolitic of me to ask what conclusions were drawn."

A beat, as Kirk's gaze abruptly refocuses and he half-turns a slow-spreading smile on his companion. The only light is from the terminal screen beside the door and the dim strip of security lighting along the high ceiling; it casts his face in watery blue-white and shadow. He says, "As would I be committing a breach of security protocol if I told you that the admiralty's main concern, at this time, is to establish whether or not the signal denotes hostile intent."

"On whose authority is this determination to be made?" asks Spock.

"Until our star guest arrives?" An eyebrow arches disdainfully. "Admiral Komack's."

"Ah."

"Yes," says Kirk. His brow furrows in frustration and he turns his glare back towards the empty wall. "You know as well as I do, Spock: the signal can be as hostile as it likes, but the Veleth Hai aren't spacefarers; they're not capable of manned space flight. The Federation is in no danger from that corner, no matter what it is they're trying to tell us."

"Others do not share your opinion, however."

"I proposed a diplomatic expedition to the edge of the system. I think Bernstein was in agreement but she can't move without Komack's support and he won't give it. Damn it," he hisses with unexpected vitriol. "The man's going to start a war some day."

Spock arches an eyebrow, unseen. He would prefer to have greater cause to rebut Kirk's words, but experience advises otherwise. He opens his mouth to speak, although he's not entirely sure what he's planning to say, but Kirk cuts him off before he has drawn breath.

"There's nothing to be done about it tonight, in any case," he says briskly. "His hands are tied for the time being at least - thank heaven." Kirk's fingers fall free of their grip at the small of his back and he rolls his shoulders, slowly, as though the action is uncomfortable. "I think I'd like to think about something else for a while. How's that simulation looking?"

Alarmingly inadequate, actually. The chances were always high that Kirk would recognize the equivocation behind Spock's selection of stellar suburbia for tonight's main attraction, but he would also recognize the impulse behind it, the necessity. It's a negligible offense in the service of a greater good. That only works, however, given a blank slate from which to work. Set it on top of an evening of frustration and disappointment, and it becomes a kind of betrayal of trust: here, at least, Kirk ought to be able to expect friendship and have it offered without condition. Three dreary conglomerations of interstellar debris stuffed haphazardly into the gravity well of a few unremarkable stars are not what Kirk came here to see, and it doesn't look like they're going to be able to pretend that Spock's planned display is sufficient.

But what is the alternative? It's not that there's a shortage of things to look at: data feeds into the array from a couple of hundred outposts scattered across Federal space and any passing starships that happen to stumble across something interesting enough to pipe back to Command. It's only that galactic space is inordinately huge, and randomly triangulating and hoping for the best is likely to result in a whole lot of black and nothing else. On the other hand… the computer is locked to Spock's data patterns, and any protocols he's run in the past twelve years are automatically accessible for as long as he's inside the imaging suite. That amounts to one hundred and forty-seven possible co-ordinates at which there will unquestionably be something to look at. None of them, unfortunately, come anywhere close to matching Spock's pre-established criteria for the evening.

Well. Kaiidth.

"You will recall," he says, turning on his heel and stepping briskly across the floor to the control panel, "That, en route to Sigma Iotia II, long-range sensors picked up what appeared to be a soft gamma repeater within the as-yet uncharted nebula designated NGC 13422."

It's not a question. Once upon a time, in the earliest days of their acquaintance, it might have been framed as a challenge, heavy with the implication that, while Spock would certainly recall, Kirk unquestionably would not. As a tool of strategic one-upmanship, however, it quickly lost its edge when it became apparent that Kirk could not be depended upon to forget things.

"Of course," says the Commodore now, pivoting on one heel to follow Spock's progress across the floor. "We planned to go back for a better look, and then we were ordered to rendezvous with the Serapis before we got the chance." His face is shrouded in shadow now, but Spock can hear the smile in his voice as he adds, "I might have known you wouldn't let it go."

"Indeed," says Spock, and thinks he hears a soft chuckle from the darkness. "Given the resources at my disposal, and a relatively broad remit, it seemed a productive use of my time to investigate further."

"And have you found your soft gamma repeater?"

"I regret that I have not." Spock draws to a halt beside the terminal interface and calls up his data pocket, scrolling rapidly across a 3D thumbnail of Federation space in search of the appropriate sector. "Sensors from an outlying probe of Rho Sigma 12-D have been unable to penetrate the nebula's inner radiation shell. However, during my research I was able to view several accessible portions of the H II region." Questing fingers find the star cluster that he seeks, and the computer automatically locks on to the protocol associated with the region. Light flares brightly above and around them, and resolves into an ethereal pink glow as the imaging suite processes millions of exabytes of information, flowing freely along a subspace channel thousands of light years across. Spock turns to face the room, where the glow is coalescing into the gossamer threads of nebular mist, curling around the blackness. "Some of the stellar spire formations are quite beautiful."

"Beautiful?" says Kirk, but his voice is hushed with a kind of reverent awe as he pivots in a slow circle, eyes trained upwards as the cloths of heaven unfold around him. "Is that your logical assessment?"

Spock steps forward, out of the shadow by the door and into the gently rotating nexus of light. The mind knows, academically, that this is a projection, the computer's best approximation of a series of binary digits captured by the mechanical eye of a distant probe, but the body wants to feel the sense of vertigo, weightlessness, suspension in an endless void. The hand wants to reach out and catch the soft filaments of star dust, like cotton candy; let it run through his fingers and tangle around his flesh. The skin wants to experience a sudden dip in temperature as it plunges into the crisp clarity of freezing vacuum. The self wants to believe it has been transported from a bunker in the bowels of an old Starfleet laboratory, and transplanted into infinity.

He falls into place at Kirk's side, tilting his head upwards to follow the path of his friend's gaze, and sees the faint gleam of a birthing star inside a dense cloud of gas and debris.

"It is the only possible assessment," he says quietly.

Kirk glances sideways and, in his peripheral vision, Spock sees his friend's throat constrict, as though his breath has caught. A smile plays around the edges of his lips as Spock stares resolutely ahead, though he's not looking at the stars. He's concentrating on remaining absolutely still, on steadying the motion of his lungs, on burying the noisy turmoil thundering through his veins. His mouth is dry, his throat is dry, but he does not move.

Kirk says, quietly and without looking away, "Tell me what I'm looking at."

Right now? He's looking at Spock. But there is no need to acknowledge this fact; Spock has not turned his head into the glare of that sideways scrutiny. He takes a breath to speak and is obliged to clear his crackling throat before the words will come. The sound is naked, vulnerable in the hush.

He says, "The pink glow is caused by ionized hydrogen gas ejected by the nebula's central star. There are three distinct protrusions of molecular cloud observable from the probe's current position. You are currently looking at the most prolific section, in which several stars can be seen in various stages of formation."

Kirk's eyes release him at last, sliding slowly upwards towards the ceiling, where a dense pillar of gas and dust occludes the coral glow. One arm rises to trace its outline in the air. "We should have come back for this," he says.

"Operational demands dictated…"

"I know, Spock. I was there; I remember." Fingers splay, silhouetted against the radiance of newborn starlight, as though Kirk is trying to filter it through his hand. "I wonder… What else did we miss?"

Again, that vertiginous sense of echo behind every word, as though there's another, silent sentence running behind and alongside every spoken thought. Spock says, "The galaxy is vast."

It's the opposite of profound; the kind of bland inconsequential that passes for sagacity amongst certain members of the service who talk for a living, and Spock fully expects some form of verbal retaliation. But Kirk only smiles faintly and nods.

"To see a world in a grain of sand," he says softly. "And heaven in a wild flower…"

"To hold infinity in the palm of your hand," finishes Spock. A beat, and he adds, "William Blake."

There is a moment of silence. Then Kirk says, "How do you do that?"

"I do not follow."

"I can't do that with Vulcan writers. Perhaps the occasional line of Surak's teachings, but T'Rela? Sanvek? I can't even name any others."

"Ah." Spock moves his hands from their clasp at the small of his back, circling them around to fold in front of his lower abdomen, and feels the brush of radiant heat from Kirk's body as they sweep close to his hip. He swallows. "My mother has a great fondness for classic Terran literature," he says. "Among my earliest memories is a spirited reading from Anna Karenina."

Kirk's face creases into a smile. "That," he says, "Makes a strange kind of sense."

He turns slightly, feet scraping softly on the floor as his body twists through forty-five, sixty degrees, head held uniformly upwards. Safely excluded from his companion's line of sight, Spock allows his gaze to fall on the shadowed outline of Kirk's back, the streaks of opal starlight shot through the fine hairs on the crown of his head, the tightly-coiled muscles in his neck that never seem to loosen. There is no question now that this evening's enterprise has been a tactical error, but he can't bring himself to lament his decision.

"There's a trade delegation scheduled to visit Sigma Iotia II in October," says Kirk now. His eyes do not leave the curling tendrils of stardust. "I'm going to recommend they bring with them a science team and a short-range scouting shuttle." A beat. "I can make sure you're on it, if you like."

"That will not be necessary," says Spock.

"No?"

How can he explain that the fires of exploration have been banked in that restless place that has propelled him into the unknown for as long as he can remember? The compulsive need to know more, to see more, to unlock the hidden truths that skirt the boundaries of sentient knowledge, this has not abated, but it is subordinate now to another, stronger need. Scientific discovery can be achieved almost anywhere in the universe; Kirk is, generally speaking, only in one place at a time.

He says, simply, "These facilities are sufficient for my present requirements."

A beat. Then Kirk breathes a soft laugh that has nothing to do with humor. "Yes," he says. "You're better at this than I am."

"Cthia demands a level of acceptance of that which we cannot change."

"I wish I had your forbearance."

It's spoken lightly, as though it was a throwaway comment, but there is an unmistakable undercurrent of… something, something unnamable, beneath it. And still Kirk does not turn around.

Quietly, Spock says, "You have regrets."

Kirk's turns quickly over his shoulder, pivoting on one heel to face Spock.

"Many," he says simply. He hesitates, eyebrows gently sloping in open-faced confession. "You must know that."

The words are innocuous, but they point into dangerous territory. Spock says, uneasily, "I see no reason for you to reproach yourself."

A soft laugh. "Thank you, my friend, but we both know that's not true." Spock opens his mouth to speak, but Kirk silences him with a brief shake of his head. "If nothing else," he says briskly, "I am guilty of many, many wasted opportunities."

Kirk's head arcs backwards, staring directly above him, and the starlight colors the pale skin of his throat in watery shades of rose. It's possible to see, just below the surface, the rapid thrum of his carotid pulse, a hummingbird shadow of gray on white in the gloom. Spock hesitates. Of all the responses he has considered - anger, disappointment, sadness, betrayal - it has never occurred to him to wonder if his friend blames himself for what has happened between them. And now, faced with this new understanding, he can't work out how he's managed not to see it. He knows the man that Kirk is; he knows the way he reads the world. It seems suddenly very important to correct this, but he has no idea how.

"Jim," he says quietly, and Kirk's head abruptly snaps forward, eyes widening in surprise.

It's the tone, Spock realizes. The tone has given him away.

He should have known this would happen. He did know it would happen, he understands suddenly; he knew as soon as he made the suggestion that brought them to this point. He knew when Kirk accepted with enthusiasm; he knew when they set the plans in motion, and he knew when he messaged Kirk this morning. Every tentative footstep forward has been taken in the certain knowledge that there was only one way this evening could go, and Spock knew this, beneath the layers of denial and self-delusion, and he did it anyway because he wants this.

That's the truth. He wants this.

Kirk swallows, adam's apple skipping against his skin. There's a moment of perfect silence, telescoping into infinity, and every second drags them further from the place where it's possible to claw this back. Spock knows he needs to retrieve this - he's not so far gone that he can't remember why he's fought so hard - but Kirk says, softly, "Spock…", and there's no mistaking the vulnerability lacing that single word, and no way to answer it short of an outright lie. He won't do that. He won't bury this in untruth.

Kirk shifts his weight, twisting so that his body is angled directly towards his companion's, and his scent fills the air between them, known and coveted; his heat is like a curtain of static against Spock's skin. Hesitantly, skittish shadows betraying a faint tremor, Kirk reaches a hand into the space that separates them. Spock watches it rise, close the distance between them, and he knows he must move; he must do something to obviate what's coming, but his controls are in fragments now. How many nights have these same images assaulted him, twisting and stabbing at his mind as it struggles for equilibrium? How many hours has this been the memory that pulls him back from the very brink of the trance, screaming up through the layers of consciousness to batter ineffectually against the walls of his resolve? How many dawns have found him, blood pooling solid in the flesh of his groin, aching with frustrated desire and unable to release it for fear that it will collapse the fracturing fortress of determination that he's labored hard to build? Warm, Human fingers close tentatively around the upper sleeve of his tunic and he can feel the press of every tiny point of skin against his, energy humming across the connection. Almost without conscious instruction, Spock's hand rises up to close over his friend's, and he has no idea if the gesture is intended to encourage or deter. Fingers curl over fingers, tangling and deepening the join, and he feels the muscles flex beneath his friend's skin, hears his breath catch in his throat…

How easy would it be to take what's offered in that uncertain gaze, to forget the red-rimmed white of his mother's eyes all those years ago and their unspoken injunction against what he needs? How easy would it be to just give in?

There is nothing he has ever wanted so badly as he wants this now. He wants it with an ache that feels dangerously ungovernable; uncountable hours of wanting distilled into a roiling torrent of desire. And so, when he finds the breath to force the word through his lips - a single, plaintive, "Jim," - he has no idea if he's asking for absolution or for the discipline he lacks.

"Jim," he says quietly, and Kirk's head drops towards his chest. It's like a circuit breaking. The atmosphere shifts; something is lost.

So. Discipline, then. For all that it's the right decision, it feels like a blow to the gut.

"I'm sorry," says his friend, quickly and quietly. "I'm sorry. You're right; I'm sorry."

Shame clutches a fist around Spock's chest. He wants to say the words that appropriate the blame from a man who does not deserve it; he wants to say You are not at fault, but there are no words to strip Kirk of the heavy weight of responsibility he carries with him like a mantle of stone; if there were, it would be the work of different circumstances to make them heard. So he says, simply, "No"; a tiny word that sounds smaller in the dark silence, and hopes that it will be enough.

"I know," says Kirk. "I'm sorry, my friend." A deep breath. "You have no idea how sorry."

Ah - no. Too late, Spock understands that his word has been taken as a dismissal, not a refutation. Kirk has heard no and assumed it's an injunction, an emphatic rejection of whatever it was he offered. Spock opens his mouth to correct him, but his brain is wheeling feverishly, scrambling for the way to fix this, and the shades have already dropped behind his friend's eyes.

"It's late," says Kirk. He glances up, and he's mastered himself again; his face is iron-hard and expressionless. "I should… I have some work to do before I turn in." A beat. "I should go."

"Computer, cease simulation," says Spock quietly. The heavens disappear into sucking blackness.

There is a moment of silence. Then Kirk says, curtly, "Lights." He blinks in the sudden onslaught of yellow-white glare, and the room is suddenly just a room again: barren, stale, and over-used.

The Commodore manages a tight smile. "Thank you for…" - a hand gestures vaguely at the blank air behind him - "…for this evening," he says. He purses his lips. "I'll comm you tomorrow."

It's possible there's a question buried beneath the blunt words, but he's gone before Spock can sort through the noise inside his head, nodding once and moving swiftly towards the door. It closes softly behind him, and Spock is alone.