The Enterprise had shifted into night cycle, with a minimal crew overseeing the ship's orbit. In the captain's quarters the remains of a meal cluttered a makeshift table while Spock and McCoy sat nearby, lingering over their snifters of Saurian brandy.

The sight of Spock lounging in upholstered comfort boggled McCoy's mind. Not that one could exactly call the Vulcan drunk, but he was certainly relaxed. It was not like Spock to drink more than a few sips of any liquor, and that only on rare occasions. It was not like him to speak of personal concerns, either. What a painful effort it must have been for Spock to open himself, but McCoy was frankly enjoying it. Of course, McCoy was tipsy.

The doctor's long-discarded jacket lay carelessly tossed on the floor, and his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows. "Yessir, I think she's alright," he mused. At Spock's skeptical look he insisted, "I mean it! So she's not what you expected. Kids seldom are. They're just themselves, Spock."

The normally articulate Vulcan seemed to grope for words. "But she is so…ill-mannered, so awkward, so…generally disagreeable."

"Does that make her this Sy-jeera thing you're talking about? So maybe her mother was. Women can rip you into little pieces—I know. My ex-wife turned out to be a harpy. Hell, I joined Starfleet just to get away from her. But Cristabeth is only a kid, for pity sake—a miserable, homesick little girl." McCoy downed the remainder of his brandy in one gulp. Unlike Spock, he was an accomplished drinker. Good liquor only served to oil his tongue. "What are you going to call her, anyhow? 'Cristabeth' sounds so formal. Why not 'Crista" like Uhura does sometimes?"

Spock raised a slanted brow in reflection. "There is a Vulcan word, kres'ta. Most insulting and inappropriate for a name."

"Then 'Beth'. Now there's a good solid handle."

Spock calmly sipped his brandy and looked straight ahead at nothing in particular. "However I address her is of little consequence. The child loathes me. She has made that abundantly clear. Frankly, Doctor, I will be glad when the week is over and she goes elsewhere."

McCoy sat bolt upright. "Now wait a minute! That's your daughter you're talking about—your own flesh and blood!"

A shadow of pain crossed Spock's face. "Correction: Adrianna's daughter. A budding Sy-jeera."

The words held such a load of bitterness that McCoy could not help but commiserate. Yet he could not stop thinking of young Cristabeth, either. Beneath that tough veneer was a child in anguish, a child who desperately needed a good father. Now if he could just blast Spock out of this damn defeatist attitude.

"Spock, you've just had a daughter handed to you. Are you really going to throw her away? Because of what she might become?" McCoy paused, letting his voice sink in accusation. "Or…is there a more basic issue at play here? Maybe you like your life the way it is. Maybe you don't want a kid disrupting your comfortable little world."

Spock fixed him with a cold stare. "Do you consider me so ego-centric?"

"Then prove it," dared McCoy. He had struck a nerve, alright. Spock fairly twitched with the reverberations. "Somewhere inside that Vulcan body of yours, beats a heart, even if it only pumps limeade—eighty proof, right about now. Consider what the girl is going through, and give her half a chance. Hell, give yourself half a chance. She may not know it yet, but she needs you. And maybe, just maybe, you need her."

Spock's eyes grew distant as he drained the last of his brandy.

Glancing at the time, McCoy rose in a languorous stretch. "Well, Captain, I'd say you followed doctor's orders almost to excess." Noticing Spock shiver, he added, "Now if you'd only start taking those Thermogran tablets, life would be more comfortable. You may not look it, but you're getting older. A warming suit just isn't enough anymore."

Spock said, "I've almost finished the bottle."

With a shock McCoy realized he was not referring to sweet Saurian brandy. Sure enough, the Vulcan drew his woefully depleted prescription from a trouser pocket.

"Spock, you've been doubling up!"

"Tripling," Spock quietly confessed. "This potion of yours is largely ineffective. I've noticed little difference whether or not I take the pills."

McCoy snatched up the container. "Talk about excess! Hell, you downed enough Thermogran to bring on heat stroke! One pill a day, man, if I have to personally dole it out. I've told you that vigorous exercise is essential for this drug to be effective. When's the last time you had a decent workout?"

McCoy already knew the answer. These days, Spock had little occasion to outrun hostile aliens or chase down bad guys. Other than a traditional Vulcan combat sport, which approached almost mystical significance, he tended toward a sedentary life. And since Jim Kirk's departure, there had been few men willing to join Spock in a physical romp; even tempering his strength for weaker species did not rule out the chance of accidental injury. At the gym, as in so many areas of Spock's life, he found himself isolated. The loneliness of such an existence might have destroyed a human.

But Spock merely looked amused. "Doctor, may I interpret your question as a challenge to V'Asumi?"

McCoy snorted. "You may not. But tomorrow I'll meet you at the track, 0700 hours sharp, with one Thermogran…and maybe something for a Vulcan-sized hangover." Taking the captain's silence as a form of agreement, he retrieved his uniform jacket. "Hell, I'll run with you."

ooooo

Christine Chapel awoke smiling. Dressing quickly, she crossed the corridor to rouse the sleeping child who had become her charge for the day. "Don't worry about a thing," she had told Uhura last night. "We'll get along just fine. I'll show Cristabeth around sickbay. Who knows, maybe she'll show some interest in medicine."

If so, Chapel knew it would be the first interest the child displayed for any shipboard matter. She had heard the labels being applied—rude, antisocial—but she had never liked labels and she despised these. How could she accept them? Snuggled under the covers, Cristabeth looked so sweet and innocent and so poignantly like—yes, like Spock.

Chapel woke her gently, stroking her fine brown hair away from her ears—neither human nor Vulcan ears, but a curious mix of both. Spock's child. The very thought made her heart beat faster. She could not help but envy the woman who had lain with him and borne this living evidence of passion. Vaguely she recalled a patient—golden, incredibly beautiful—and the tense, silent Vulcan who brought her aboard. Was she the one? Could they have been lovers? There was nothing golden about Cristabeth, but in the mingling of genes anything was possible.

She should have been mine! The jealous thought briefly consumed her, then passed away in concern for the child. Where was her mother now? What unhappy chain of circumstances had set solemn, intense Cristabeth at odds with her father—worse even than strangers?

"We'll have breakfast a little later," she promised the child as they headed straight for sickbay. She was surprised when Cristabeth withheld her usual negative remarks about Enterprise food. The girl was subdued and tagged along on rounds like an obedient puppy. Chapel took it as a hopeful sign that she would respond to a good dose of genuine affection.

They were about to leave for breakfast when Doctor McCoy's head popped out from pre-op. "Do me a favor, Chris. The captain's expecting me at the track for a run in two minutes, but I've got an angry appendix waiting. Could you deliver that medication in my office? And see that he runs!"

Chapel gave him a skeptical smile. "Just how do you propose I do that?"

"Chase him," said McCoy, deadpan.

Chapel blushed. She sent her young companion ahead to the dining room, saddened that such a precaution seemed necessary. She arrived alone at the recreation deck. The turbolift opened directly onto the track-gymnasium center where a solitary figure in a gray warm-up suit waited at trackside. Spock looked up as Chapel came over and joined him.

"Captain," she said, "I've seldom seen this place so empty." Her voice actually created a faint echo.

"The crew is taking full advantage of Ildaran hospitality," Spock observed.

"And that marvelous spring weather," she added. "I was down at Shelter beach yesterday. You should check it out, sir—walk along the sand, watch the surf roll in." She tactfully refrained from any comment on his wan appearance. By the look of things that 'hangover' pill wasn't just McCoy's idea of a practical joke. After handing over the medicine, she filled the awkward moment with an apology for her absent colleague. Secretly she suspected that McCoy had begged off, feeling the effects himself.

Chapel watched Spock swallow the tablets—both of them—without water and made no effort to stop him when he headed for the changing room. She would not urge him to exercise in his condition.

Suddenly Spock came to a halt, his eyes fixed on the main entrance where a small but determined figure was approaching. It was Cristabeth! With a started gasp, Chapel hurried to intercept her disobedient charge before the girl said something horrible and the captain reprimanded Chapel for it.

But Spock's voice stopped her. "No—it is alright. Let the child come."

Chapel could only stand by, watching the scene unfold, and wonder at her good fortune. Now, firsthand, she would see these two interact.

Step by step Cristabeth drew near, her attention locked on the stony Vulcan face that was an uncanny image of her own. She reached Spock. Striking a defiant pose, she said, "I thought you were going to run."

After a wearing moment Spock levelly replied, "Indeed, I am." He scarcely hesitated to add, "Would you care to run with me?"

Under Cristabeth's disdainful eyes, he returned to the track and started out at a moderate jog. As he approached the end of his first lap, the child darted out and joined him. Chapel clung to the rail, a fascinated witness to this matter-antimatter mix, awaiting the inevitable explosion. She would have a few choice words for the scheming imp afterward, it there were anything left of her.

Cristabeth proved to be a natural runner. With strong, steady kicks she flew over the resilient track surface, swiftly building up a half lap lead before Spock moved to catch her. The girl clearly wanted a race. Hearing Spock closing in behind her, she quickened her pace. Spock pushed himself with what seemed a bit more effort than even a hung-over Vulcan should need to catch a child, and moved abreast. For breathless moments they ran side-by-side, Cristabeth's wiry legs stretching for speed, Spock measuring his stride to hers. But he did not pass the child. When the lap counter registered two kilometers he slowed, jogged a final circuit, then walked over to Chapel, breathing much too heavily from the exertion. He had the look of a man barely holding down his stomach. Beads of all-too-human sweat glistened on his face as he watched Cristabeth effortlessly complete another lap.

Chapel could not resist muttering, "Little show-off."

But Spock voiced a grudging approval. "She runs well. Remarkably well, considering her general lack of discipline."

He vanished into the changing room, leaving Chapel to ponder what course of discipline would most benefit the disobedient youngster. She was ready and waiting when Cristabeth ran from the track, beaming in smug triumph. "Young lady, you're in trouble! Didn't I tell you to wait for me in the dining room? Instead, you show up here, acting like—"

"I made him run, didn't I?" Cristabeth put in coolly. "Isn't that what you wanted? Anyhow, he's not anything special. I thought he was supposed to be so strong."

Even more than the words, it was the sneering tone that did it. Chapel lost her temper. "Why, you—listen here, little miss! Don't believe for one second that you outdid Captain Spock in any department! You were the one racing, not him. The captain does not compete with…with brats!"

Cristabeth's eyes slowly narrowed—not at Chapel, but at some point beyond her left shoulder. Then came the masculine voice. "Touché, Doctor Chapel. You do have a way with children."

Pink from embarrassment, Chapel swung around to face her captain. How could he have dressed already? But there he stood, freshly showered, in full uniform, serenely observing her discomposure. She felt like clobbering them both.

Overcome with childish outrage, Cristabeth confronted her father. "You mean…you let me win?"

"I let you run," countered Spock. "Any contest existed solely in your mind. Had I known that you came here without permission, you never would have run at all."

The gentle reprimand served to silence Cristabeth, but only for a moment. With a stubborn lift of her chin she asked, "Can I run with you again tomorrow?"

Chapel looked warily at Spock. The elegant Vulcan brows were drawn together in deliberation, perhaps searching for some logical reason to excuse himself. In the end his sensitive conscience failed him. "Very well," he said, voice tinged with reluctance. "You may run—provided you behave appropriately until then."

Cristabeth's calculating little smile went unnoticed as he turned to Chapel. "And where is Commander Uhura this morning?"

"On shore leave, Captain. This is only a temporarily arrangement, but if you find it unsatisfactory…"

He shook his head rather wearily. "No, Doctor Chapel, you seem quite equal to the task. Do what you must to maintain a semblance of order."

Chapel brightened at the vote of confidence. "As you wish, sir." As he strode away, a slow grin of pleasure spread over her face.

At her side, Cristabeth loosed a derisive huff. "You like him. I can tell."

A hot flush of embarrassment caught Chapel yet again. "Your father…the captain…well, everyone likes him." Too late, she realized that she had said the words out loud. Your father.

Cristabeth chattered on as if she had heard nothing unusual. Making a face, she said "I hate it when he calls me 'the child'."

"Well, that's what you are—a child." And she could not resist adding, "His child."

ooooo

"Captain…Captain," Sulu repeated under his breath as he leaned toward the Vulcan seated at his side.

Incredibly, Spock did not seem to hear him. The captain's stare remained centered on some distant place, far from the arms discussion heating the assembly room. Who could say how talk had derailed from agricultural exports to the touchy subject of planetary defense? However it had happened, Sulu could not believe Spock was just sitting there letting the conference go to hell. Clearing his throat, he tried once more for the Vulcan's attention. "Captain!"

Spock turned to him with a cold, piercing look Sulu remembered from those first days after the Vulcan returned from Kolinahr, a look Sulu had hoped never to see again. It sent a chill right through him.

In his hand, Spock held the message his yeoman had delivered seven minutes earlier. Abruptly crushing the printout, he scraped his chair away from the conference table. The sudden, noisy movement drew the eyes of several Ildarans, including Governor Jordan. Silence fell over the assembly as Spock stood to address them. "Ladies and gentlemen. My apologies, but an important matter has come up. I must leave you in the capable hands of our Federation envoy and my second-in-command."

A buzz of surprise circled the table, but Jordan signaled for quiet. "Most certainly, Captain." His words were laced with delicate sarcasm. "A starship commander must have many pressing duties."

Spock inclined his head and as he passed from the room, found Sulu at his heels. In the corridor he threw the crumpled wad of paper down a disposal chute.

"Anything I should know, sir?" inquired Sulu.

Spock continued to the turbolift, rigid and untouchable. The doors did not open immediately. Waiting, he faced the turbolift and said, "I fail to understand this crew's persistent, tiresome meddling into my private affairs. If you must play the psychoanalyst, Mister Sulu, then content yourself with the Ildaran representatives and their petty grievances. They are awaiting you."

The doors whooshed aside. Spock boarded the lift without softening the effect of his words, without acknowledging Sulu's certain anger with so much as a glance.

"Deck five," he ordered. As the lift began moving, he gripped the bar for support, holding tight against an onslaught of dizziness and nausea. The brandy's poison was still playing havoc with his system, but Spock considered it a minor problem compared to the deeper issue of his personal behavior. Sulu had reason to be concerned. Under strain, his captain had indulged in alcohol. And now his captain was abdicating his duty for personal considerations—something Spock would never tolerate in his subordinates, a luxury he had never before permitted himself. Yet he could not have remained amidst the assembly room babble one minute longer, not after reading the communiqué from Ildarani and absorbing its full implication.

He reached the privacy of his quarters and locked the door. Taking a seat, he pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples and summoned the formula for controlling pain. Though his mental processes were less than optimal, the terse official words of the message remained vivid in every detail.

To Spock, Captain U.S.S. Enterprise:

It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of Justrelle

Lemoine, colonial citizen. In the absence of any legal

claimant, custody of her granddaughter, Cristabeth Janis

Lemoine, has fallen to the State of New Florida.

As per the decedent's instructions, you are hereby

ordered to present the child at Social Monitor Division for

further determination. Failure to comply within five

days will result in punitive action.

Freedor Belvin

Colonial Solicitor

Simple words. Justrelle Lemoine was gone—the one legal obstacle that for twelve years had barred Spock from his own child, and his sole security against the pain of dealing with Adrianna's daughter. There remained no one to dispute his claim as natural father, should he now assert it. And if he chose not to? In any cast, the child must be told about her grandmother, and that unpleasant task now fell to him. Even in death Justrelle would have her revenge.

ooooo

"One Thermogran, as prescribed." This morning Doctor McCoy personally dropped a blue tablet into the captain's outstretched hand. Spock swallowed the medication without comment, his attention on the track island where Mister Sulu was relentlessly battering a punching bag.

"Where's your young running companion?" wondered McCoy a bit uneasily. Unless Cristabeth made a quick appearance, he would be forced to suit up and make good on his brandy-induced promise. "Isn't it just like a woman to be late?"

"I suspect she will arrive shortly, bristling with hostile energy and primed for competition."

"I suspect you're right," mused McCoy, his discerning eyes on Mister Sulu, who by now had worked up quite a sweat. "Hey, there's a likely candidate for V'Asumi—all that pent aggression. Why not give him a chance to work it out on you?" …where it belongs, seemed to float, unspoken, in the air.

In an overly patient tone Spock explained, "Emotions, most particularly antagonistic emotions, have no place in the disciplined combat of Asumi. Even were Sulu to compose himself, I could not issue a challenge to an untrained opponent—only to one possessing skill equaling or greater than my own."

"I'm talking about a friendly workout," growled McCoy, "not some martial arts competition. You Vulcans take everything so damn seriously."

Spock's eyebrow edged higher, but he refrained from detailing the ancient and profoundly intricate Asumi code. His attention drifted back to Sulu, to the lithe strength that was, admittedly, well suited for the discipline. He could not help but imagine working his muscles against those of his second-in-command.

Light, feminine footsteps drew Spock from his reverie. He turned and his expression became grave as he inspected the child at Uhura's side. Cristabeth wore a scaled-down duplicate of his own gray warm-up suit, right down to its maroon piping and Starfleet insignia. Even their Reeboks matched. "I see," he dryly noted, "that you have availed yourself of the ship's fabricators."

Cristabeth only smirked.

"The selections were hers, sir," revealed Uhura.

McCoy's grin spread unrestrained from ear to ear. Dressed alike, the father-daughter resemblance was never more striking. He wished Admiral Kirk were here to see this—but of course Jim did not even know the child existed.

"Have you fulfilled the requirement I set for you?" Spock's tone was that of a superior officer addressing a raw recruit. Seeing Cristabeth's confusion, he clarified. "The matter of your conduct."

She gave a careless shrug. "I guess I did alright."

"Sir," prompted Uhura.

Another shrug and definite frown as she added, "Sir."

Uhura nodded her approval. The child's behavior had shown a marked improvement, but she could not help wondering what lurked beneath those scheming eyes. A hint of a smile stirred Cristabeth's mouth as she entered the track and took her place beside the captain. Its meaning quickly became clear. As soon as they started running, she sprinted far ahead. "Racing again! That obstinate little rascal, she promised to jog with him."

Sulu came over and joined the spectators. Chuckling, he said, "Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition."

McCoy kept his thoughts to himself, watching the child's every stride as she lapped her father. Just as Chapel had described, only this time Spock seemed to have no intention of catching the mischievous little whirlwind. After being lapped four times, the Vulcan pulled up suddenly and walked toward them. McCoy did not like the look in Spock's eyes.

"My cue to go," Sulu said and darted for the changing room.

Uhura tossed up her hands in a hopeless gesture. "If I'd known what she was planning…"

"Oh, come on—Spock's ego isn't the problem," McCoy said under his breath. "Whatever's wrong, it's not that kid tryin' to outshine him."

Cristabeth was well into her third kilometer when the captain blew in like a Vulcan storm cloud.

"Sir, I told her—" began Uhura, but Spock cut her off sharply.

"Never mind. The child is my responsibility and she will accompany me after I change."

When the Vulcan was safely out of earshot, McCoy muttered, "Cranky. Maybe the kid did get under that thick hide of his, after all." He felt surprisingly protective toward Cristabeth and was tempted to sneak her away somewhere safe. But Spock was her father. If he were ever to learn that role, he would need time alone with the child. McCoy could only hope that spunky Cristabeth would survive the learning.

Cristabeth was cooling down from her long run when the captain returned for her. He gave the child a look neither McCoy nor Uhura could interpret, but it did not bode well.

"Come with me," Spock told her.

For an instant Cristabeth held back, ready to refuse, but then she thought better of it. Head lifted high, she walked beside the stern Vulcan, determined to conceal her fear. This was only the second time they had been alone together. What could he possibly want with her? Glancing sidelong at his forbidding profile, she shuddered. Yes, she truly hated him. She must never let herself stop hating him.

Spock was too occupied with his own concerns to notice Cristabeth's tension. Leading her to his quarters, he seated the child in a comfortable chair. The room temperature had been lowered for her comfort. Thinking she might be thirsty from her long run, he offered her water, which she coolly declined.

Now there was no delaying this. Spock had planned everything, carefully selecting words that might soften the blow. But now, standing before the child—Adrianna's daughter—he could not think how to begin. The golden brown of her eyes held him for a long moment.

Nervous from Spock looming over her, she blurted, "Are you going to beat me? You think I'm a brat. I heard you agreeing with Doctor Chapel—'touché', you said, and I know what that means. You're the captain, so you can do whatever you want around here. But you better not hit me or…or I'll scream so loud that the entire crew will bust in here!"

Taken aback by the speech, Spock searched her defiant face. "Are you accustomed to beatings?"

She struggled with her answer, settling reluctantly on the unexciting truth. "No."

"Then…I frighten you. Is that it?"

She stared at the floor in silence.

Spock sat down opposite her and for the first time called the child by name. "Cristabeth. I brought you here only so that we can speak in private. Unfortunately, what I must say will be painful for you to hear. I realize that I am little more than a stranger, but as your father it is my responsibility to pass bad news on to you."

She studied him through narrowed eyes. "What bad news?"

Taking a slow breath, Spock said, "I am sorry to tell you that your grandmother has died." He had braced himself for hysterics, but the stillness that followed his words proved equally disturbing. Then the silence broke.

"No." Cristabeth stood and shook her head in firm denial. "Not Mama. You're lying! That's it—you just want to keep me away from her!"

Spock had not expected to have his honesty questioned. Nevertheless, he looked upon her with some compassion. "It is the truth, child. She was very ill, you were aware of that. Your grandmother brought you here because she was dying."

"But she didn't die!" Cristabeth insisted. "I don't believe you! I want off your stinking ship! I want to go home!"

Spock rose, at a temporary loss at how to proceed. He settled on reason rather than discipline. "Cristabeth, even were I to take you home, you could not remain there by yourself. However, if we attend your grandmother's funeral, we could visit your home afterward."

"Home?" She seized on the single word. "You promise?"

"Yes, after the funeral." Spock hoped the time-honored ritual of grieving would help Cristabeth accept her grandmother's death.

The child backed toward the door, her face gone cold and calculating. "Just remember, you promised. But there won't be any funeral, you'll see."

ooooo

Somehow Sulu was not surprised when the captain took him aside at completion of another day's trade session. Spock had been there in body only. Now, with the assembly room emptied of all but a chatting pair of Ildarans, the Vulcan spoke so that he could not possibly be overheard. "Mister Sulu, I must go planetside tomorrow morning. You will represent me at that meeting and assist the Federation envoy."

Sulu's jaw dropped. "But Captain, negotiations are at a decisive stage. Can't you postpone this other business…or assign it to someone else?" It made no sense at all for Spock to steadfastly avoid Ildarani, only to beam down now, at this crucial juncture.

"Impossible," Spock said with finality. "The matter demands my personal attention."

"Unlike the trade conference," Sulu interjected recklessly. "Frankly, Captain, I don't understand. This is completely illogical." It was the worst thing he could have said to a Vulcan, and Sulu instantly regretted his choice of words. "Sir, I…what I mean is…"

Spock's retort silenced him like a phaser blast. "Your meaning is clear, Mister. If you find my actions unacceptable, there are specific measures outlined in the Starfleet Manual of Procedures."

Sulu was appalled. "Captain, I wasn't suggesting—"

"Then carry out your orders."

ooooo

Once again, he had overreacted. Spock knew that he was largely responsible for the increasing friction between himself and Sulu, a fine officer. The problem had been forming even before this mission to Ildarani and involved more than Sulu's yearning for command. It was the same problem that arose wherever Vulcans worked in close proximity with humans. To perform their best, humans required a friendlier rapport than Spock could manage. He generally followed his own counsel, seldom sharing the motivations that might have endeared him to his crew. For this reason—this fierce personal reserve common to Vulcans—he was sometimes viewed as arrogant.

Disheartened by the recent confrontations, Spock reflected, Am I, in fact, arrogant? It was a question with no easy answer. His thoughts further darkened as night settled over the Enterprise. Tension sent him pacing the starship corridors well after the hour when most day watch personnel were asleep in their bunks; a dreary hour he might have passed with Jim Kirk in a game of chess and quiet conversation. On nights such as this he particularly missed his former captain. Kirk's departure had left a deep void in his life, and recent actions only served to further isolate him. The situation must not continue. Beginning tomorrow he would actively seek ways to improve his relationship with Commander Sulu.

Meanwhile, Spock roamed the Enterprise like a restless shadow, reaching into remote areas he seldom took time to visit. The final leg of his tour brought him through the eerie depths of the interhull, where he surprised more than one couple emerging from the privacy cubicles scattered among the bracings. Judging by their obvious embarrassment, they had been engaged in a favorite human pastime.

Spock wondered how they could find a purely physical joining so pleasurable. Did they ever crave a deeper intimacy? Was it this lack that drove so many of them from bed to bed? His thoughts drifted to Cristabeth's mother—to the feel of her mind joining his, and their bodies touching. A sudden, painful longing for her welled up inside him.

Disgusted with himself, Spock thrust the memories aside. He had been used, nothing more. Adrianna was more cold and conniving than T'Pring. Under her Sy-jeera spell, he would have cast aside his betrothed for her. In the end, it was T'Pring who cast Spock aside, leaving him with no one. Alone, he turned toward his cabin and the healing meditation that had carried him through these past days.

At deck five he met Uhura in the night-dimmed corridor near his quarters. "Late to bed," he said in greeting, "or rising early?"

Uhura brushed the question aside. "Captain, I've been looking all over for you. It's Cristy."

Cristy. So the name had undergone yet another transformation. "I gather she has been difficult?"

"No…yes." Then again, Uhura firmly decided, "No. At least not the sort of difficult you probably mean. The child is so quiet. She's so…withdrawn. Ever since that time with you, she's hardly said a word. She just mopes. Right now she's lying in her bunk staring at the ceiling."

"I see."

Uhura looked at him for a long moment, her expression determinedly patient. "Captain, I know it's not your way to show concern, but she's acting so strangely. I don't know what happened between you, but maybe…if you talked to her…"

Spock shook his head. "I doubt that would be of any help."

"You doubt!" Uhura's incredulous response shattered the early morning stillness. She clamped her mouth shut, but every rigid inch of her conveyed a dim view of Spock's parenting. "Captain," she said through her teeth, "it's obvious that you don't have much experience with children. Can't you at least try?"

Her remark stung Spock beyond all reason. A Vulcan required neither understanding nor approval, yet unaccountably he did want Uhura to understand him. Like Justrelle Lamoine, she was questioning his competence as a parent. It did not help that he was also questioning himself.

"Say what you really think," he urged, "off the record." But she kept her disapproving silence, and Spock's temper rose. "You think I am arrogant and uncaring. Is that not correct? Perhaps you think I've deliberately done something to hurt the child."

In the shadows, Uhura studied his face. Her tone became softer. "No, Spock, I don't want to believe that, but what am I to think? Why can't you just explain?"

Her heartfelt appeal called for a candid response. But stripped of his Vulcan face, words did not come easily for Spock. "Perhaps…I should have informed you. The child's grandmother has died. She does not want to believe me. The truth is too painful for her to accept. If there is any way you can help her…"

"Oh no," Uhura sighed, "the poor thing." Glancing right and left over the deserted corridor, she snared her startled captain in a swift hug.

She was gone before Spock could collect himself.