Sarek was aboard a starship halfway into his 14-hour journey back to Earth. He'd cut his trip short by four days following the Comstock incident. The Federation-wide reaction had been one of panic and the possibility that Romulans had destroyed the vessel wasn't even public information. Yet.
It was generally understood within military circles that the Romulans possessed the holographic technology to camouflage themselves as friendly ships, as they had done seventy years earlier when they had tried to provoke war between Andoria and Tellar Prime prior to the Federation's formation. Intelligence agencies had also known for a long time that the Romulans were highly invested in stealth cloaking technologies, but most engineers disputed their ability to hide something as large as a ship, especially travelling at warp.
Of course, the most accurate information about Romulan technology was more than 65 years old and dated back to the Romulan Wars. No one had ever made visual contact with the Romulans and what little they knew of the Romulan language was half extrapolation based on limited data from old and intercepted transmissions. The Romulan Wars had been the catalyst for a standardized Federation universal translator, a project ten years in the making called Rosetta.
But whether Romulan ships were disguised or completely invisible, either possibility was ominous. Even more curious was that reports from previous Romulan encounters explicitly outlined their triphasic emitter technology, which could simulate various weapons signatures. If there were some plot by the Romulans to start another war, it was illogical that they would go through the trouble of hiding themselves to get so far into Federation space and then leave traces of their own disruptors when they could have just as easily made it look like the work of Klingons.
Despite little information being available to the public, it hadn't stopped people from speculating about the involvement of the Romulans, or the Klingons, or some internal plot. It hadn't stopped the Earth First Party from accusing Vulcan and Andoria of negligence. Reports had surfaced that the Comstock had been in distress for three days in the Bolian sector, and as Vulcan and Andorian ships routinely moved throughout that region of space, it was believed that their call for help had been heard and ignored.
Sarek sat in the ship's forward lounge, holding his PADD and deep in deliberation. The news of the Comstock's almost certain destruction had been released 48 hours before, and he knew that Miss Grayson would have no doubt been informed by now. When he had confirmed that Melvin Grayson was indeed her father, he intuited a peculiar wave of sympathy for her situation. He felt a quiet sadness that he found very difficult to control, which was perplexing because not only had he never met the man, but also he didn't even experience the same emotion when his father had died the previous year.
Presently he found himself struggling to draft a message of condolence to her. He had started and deleted three separate attempts, dismissing each being too concise or too logical for human comfort. He was uncertain what to say that would adequately convey his sentiment. Vulcans did not publicly speak about the emotional turmoil caused by the deaths of loved ones. They grieved, naturally, but it was a thing understood to be deeply personal and done in private.
As he contemplated the content of his message, Admiral Bentham entered the lounge and sat in a nearby chair next to a low, circular table. Sarek had had little interaction with him throughout their visit to Vulcan. He sensed the man was seeking a conference, so he clicked his device off and turned to him.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," Bentham said with a half smile. "I know you must be very busy."
"As are you, no doubt," Sarek replied.
"Yes, curious times we live in," Bentham agreed. "Though I expect every generation thinks that about itself."
Sarek said nothing but watched the admiral shift in his chair and lean forward. Bentham was a man with a thin frame, short stature, and a flawlessly neat appearance. His size and clean-cut features would lead many to guess he was far younger than he was, were it not for the hard wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His eyes were a dull blue and were neither kind nor calculating. They were almost Vulcan in nature, possessing a neutral quality that many called unnerving.
When Bentham had consented to take the place of the late Admiral Winters on the voyage to Vulcan, Mr. Marcus had prepared a dossier on Starfleet's temporary Chief of Staff for Sarek.
Bentham had been born and raised on the unsanctioned Federation Providence colony of Jouret IV, near the intersection of present-day Federation, Klingon, and Romulan space. 49 years ago, tensions between the Romulans and Klingons nearly erupted in war and the Klingons killed the 500 colonists, believing them to be Romulan spies. Bentham had been the only survivor and despite his young age, managed to live alone on the colony for nearly a year before his rescue.
He had applied to Starfleet at age 16 and excelled beyond expectations, spending most of his career in intelligence before assuming command and several staff positions. His secretary's report described him as a shrewd negotiator and brilliant tactician.
"I want you to realize, Ambassador Sarek, that I personally don't think Vulcan could have done anything to prevent the destruction of the Comstock."
"I agree with your assessment," Sarek replied. "Has Starfleet made any progress on the decryption of the message from the Klingons?"
Bentham's mouth twitched slightly at his mention of the Klingons. It was apparent he was used to conducting conversations to suit him and disliked submitting control over the discussion.
"No, not yet," he replied. "It's curious about the Romulan weapon signatures though. If it really were Romulans, they may have crossed the Neutral Zone right near that corridor you're wanting to expand."
"The expansion of the corridor is in the interest of science and the Federation, not me personally. Furthermore, there is inconclusive evidence to show it was Romulans, though if it were, there is no way of knowing where they crossed the Neutral Zone or how long they were in Federation space, either before or after the alleged attack on the Comstock."
"Yes, all very logical points-" Bentham rebutted, before being interrupted by Sarek.
"Moreover, it is curious that the message from the Klingons was received just hours before the first distress call from the Comstock. It's been years since the last contact with the Klingons and decades since the last contact with the Romulans. I believe humans appreciate deriving meaning from coincidences, so tell me, Admiral, what do you make of it?"
Bentham's eyes narrowed as he answered, "I don't put much stock into coincidences either, unless I have a reason to. Can you give me a reason?"
"I was thinking you could give me one," Sarek replied.
"My professional opinion is that the Klingon message is a fluke," remarked Bentham. "There's all kinds of leakage radiation floating through space and subspace; there's bound to be a message or two that gets sent in the wrong direction and floats around until someone picks it up."
"Decrypted so well that even the best at Starfleet haven't deciphered it yet?"
"From what I understand, the brilliant cryptologists at the Vulcan Science Academy are struggling with it too," Bentham mentioned.
"Our inability to decrypt the message is irrelevant in terms of why the Klingons would devise such an encryption strategy in the first place. You believe the message is a fluke, yet it is logical to assume the contents of the message are of significant value to the Klingon Empire if they have encrypted it so well that we have been unable to decode it for days."
"Just because it's significant to the Klingon Empire doesn't mean it's significant to the Federation," Bentham argued.
"On that point, you are correct," Sarek agreed.
"For someone whose home world is taking a lot of blame for the loss of the Comstock, you're really fascinated by this Klingon message."
"And for someone who has spent decades in Starfleet intelligence, you seem unfazed by an unusual message intercepted by the Klingons."
"What are you implying, Ambassador?"
"Merely that we are engaged in two separate conversations, and I would prefer to focus on one."
"I heard tell you were one of the best orators in the Federation," Bentham said.
"A third-party opinion which is irrelevant here," Sarek countered.
At that moment, Bentham received a call and urgently excused himself. Sarek noted that Bentham was very skilled at obtaining information: the best intelligence officers were. He couldn't be sure precisely what information he wanted, but he had effortlessly employed casual conversation, intimidation, mild insults, and flattery to get it.
He returned to his PADD to resume efforts to draft a message to Amanda and noted that he'd received a message from Secretary Varen at the consulate. The message was brief and explained that the Terran government was proposing an emergency session to secede from the Federation. He spent the rest of his journey back to Earth entangled in correspondence between Earth, the Federation Council, and multiple levels of the Vulcan government.
He returned to Earth at 0200 hours Sunday morning and was greeted by Varen at the landing dock. It was raining and he noticed how quickly he had adjusted to being back on Vulcan by his discomfort at Earth's wetter, thicker atmosphere.
He was tempted to return to the consulate and return the 35 messages he had received from Vulcan citizens residing on Earth about the developing crisis, and begin drafting replies to requests for his attendance at an increasing number of meetings and briefings in the coming days. His schedule was already overbooked for the 13 out of next 18 days and he knew his list of tasks would continue to grow almost exponentially. Rather than proceed directly to work on a day that most humans were idle and at a time when few humans were awake, he chose instead to return to his living quarters.
They spoke little in the consular shuttle car and Sarek returned to his PADD and the message he intended to send to Amanda Grayson. The text area was completely blank. As they arrived in front of his building, he clicked the screen off, thanked Varen for his diligence in handling the current crisis in his absence, and walked the stairs to his accommodations.
He undressed and prepared for sleep. He was tired: physically, mentally, and even emotionally. He laid awake in his large bed, breathing slowly to facilitate an easier transition into sleep, but sleep did not come.
Amanda's face was swollen from twenty-four hours of episodic crying. She lie sprawled across her bed, curled into her own grief. Vera had stayed with her through most of the night, holding her and wiping the tears and mucus from her face periodically.
The school's administrator had come during the middle of her class on Friday and said there were people from Starfleet who wanted to speak with her privately. She knew before she even walked out of the classroom that her father was dead.
Of course, they hadn't said "dead" exactly. They had said, "missing, presumed dead." The Comstock had a crew of 14 including her father, and from the looks of it, they were all dead, as if they had just disappeared in orbit of a planet called Ivor Prime.
A bombardment of well-wishers and sympathizers descended on her all Friday evening and into Saturday. Her mother called three times and sounded as though she'd also been crying. Her mother never spoke much about her father after the divorce, but they'd parted on amicable terms and were always civil when speaking of each other. Hearing her mother cry about her father's death made her cry even harder, as she wondered if her mother felt some lingering guilt or regret about the manner in which they'd parted ways.
Giles and Celeste stopped by in the evening to give her a vegetable casserole and offer their condolences. She'd babysat their twins just the day before: it was amazing how quickly things could change.
She found herself staring at the wall, pretending she could see patterns in the texture. The ring of her PADD on the nightstand startled her, and she clicked the speaker button without even picking it up to see who it was.
"Hello, Amanda?"
It was John. She sat up, too drained and too sad to pick a fight.
"Yeah," she answered hoarsely. "Yeah, it's me."
"I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am," he said with a kind sincerity she could scarcely believe.
"Yeah, thanks," she mumbled, her voice harsh and tense.
Silence hung heavy in the air for a number of seconds before John spoke again, saying, "You're a really wonderful person, Amanda, and you deserved a lot better than me."
Was this some kind of apology or an attempt to reconcile? He sounded like he genuinely cared, and so she couldn't figure out what his angle was, and that bothered her.
"So I'm really sorry for everything, the way I treated you in our relationship, the…"
He trailed off and she stared at her ceiling feeling completely confused.
"Look, I never met your father, but I'm sure he was a good person. He raised a great daughter. I'm so very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, John," she said cordially.
Whether he meant it or not, whether there was some political advantage in his apology, she didn't have the desire or the energy to be petty.
"Listen, Amanda, please take care of yourself. Just, just take care of yourself."
"Um, yeah, thanks, I will," she said, growing weary of his strained platitudes.
"Yeah, well, I mean it. Take care of yourself. Goodbye."
She heard the faint noise of the connection click and her PADD fall silent. She continued to stare at the ceiling, and tears began dripping down her cheeks again. Euclid chose that moment to leap onto the bed with her, which made her cry even harder for no obvious reason. She hugged him and buried her wet face into his patchwork fur, and cried until she fell asleep.
Some hours later she woke up alone. It was dark outside and the glow of the city streamed into her bedroom. She rubbed her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed; every part of her body felt like it weighed more than it should and her head throbbed and her throat was dry.
She shuffled her way toward the kitchen for a glass of ice water when she tripped over her shoulder bag that she had dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the narrow hallway to her bedroom. She'd been nearly hysterical when she came home yesterday afternoon and tidying up her apartment hadn't been high atop the priority list. Blinding pain tore through her big toe as the bag's contents scattered across the floor.
She plopped down on the hard floor, clutching her toe and wanted to cry and feel sorry for herself, but she found that she had no tears left to give.
"Great, now I'm too dehydrated to cry," she wailed out loud, and then wanted to cry because she couldn't cry.
When she was done with her pity party, she looked around at the various items strewn across her floor until she came to rest on the Teachings of Surak that Sarek had given her lying near her injured foot. She reached forward and gently picked it up by the spine, allowing the pages to fall loosely open.
She stood and carried it into her breakfast nook, and sat at the table, gently turning the pages. The book was old and well used, but it was also well made. She turned back to the first page and began skimming, translating as best as she could by sight. It was harder than she thought it would be, and found herself retrieving her hardbound English/Vulcan dictionary from her shelf along with her PADD and stylus for taking notes.
After she had completed three pages, she read through her translation and considered its meaning. It was an introduction, an explanation for why Surak had chosen to embrace logic as he watched emotion destroy his people. "We have differences. May we, together, become greater than the sum of us both." She thought about Earth, the riots, and then him. Putting her mind to work at teasing apart his language had the brilliant effect of taking her mind off of her father, but inversely made her think of Sarek.
She knew it was wrong to say she missed him. She supposed missing people was reserved for occasions when two or more people had a long-standing association. In a strange way she felt guilty for thinking about him now, as if she were somehow being disrespectful to her father's memory. Yet as she worked she thought of him periodically, wondering if she would ever hear from him again and what he was doing at that moment at home on Vulcan.
The clock on her kitchen cooking unit read 0158 hours. She wasn't particularly tired, but she was restless. She put on a pot of green tea and then returned to translating Surak's teachings. She translated for hours, until the gray dawn crept through her bay window and illuminated the materials she'd collected on her pub table.
She sat up and stretched, feeling the vertebrae in her back release a delicious popping sound. Across from her was the bookshelf where she kept the volumes her father had sent her from his travels. She felt a fresh wave of grief and reached for her teacup to see if she could literally swallow her sadness back down but the cup was disappointingly empty.
She trudged into the kitchen, seeing that it was now 0714 hours. She wanted to be tired, but she felt sad, confused, and jittery following the events of the last weeks and a whole pot of heavily caffeinated tea. She refilled her kettle and put it to boil to make another pot and flopped down on her couch, staring at the picture frames on her mantel that were still wildly askew following the morning after the conference when she felt so irrationally angry with John that she'd thrown a bit of a fit and pushed them out of the neat little rows he had placed them in.
She laughed as she thought of what she must have looked like, and then felt sad again when she remembered that she had been in the middle of throwing her silly tantrum when Sarek had stopped by for tea. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and assuming it was Vera checking in with her, she looked at the door, noticed the latch was open, and yelled, "It's open."
After a few seconds she repeated herself but the door remained closed. She hopped off the couch and pulled open, and to her shock discovered Ambassador Sarek. He wasn't supposed to be here.
She looked down at herself, realizing she was still in the same clothes from Friday evening that Vera had helped her change into and that she hadn't showered or performed any virtually any personal hygiene since then. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and her wide-rimmed shirt probably exposed more of her chest than he considered decent, so she stood up straight as casually as she could and stared at him awkwardly.
"You said the door was open; clearly it was closed," he said, motioning to the doorframe. "Though now I see you may have been imprecisely referring to your locking mechanism."
"Oh, yes," she said, offering a half-hearted smile. "Please don't think I was being rude: I didn't realize it was you. I thought you were supposed to be on Vulcan."
The teakettle screamed behind her and she added, "Would you like to come in? Have a cup of tea?"
He barely nodded, entered, and shut the door behind him as she dashed off to the kitchen, shrugging her shirt up onto her shoulders to hide her bra straps. She pulled the kettle from the conduction unit and her mind furiously raced through all of the reasons he might have come.
"Did you say you wanted some tea?" she asked, her voice strained.
"That would be acceptable, thank you," he said.
She went to her breakfast nook to grab her empty cup from the table and noticed him still standing by the door, his hands behind his back, looking at her with an expression she would almost define as wonderment.
"It's not the same tea you had the last time, it's Earl Grey, but if you like I can make you-"
"Whatever you prepare will be appreciated, Miss Grayson," he said.
"Ok, you can come sit if you like," she said, motioning to the pub chair Vera had pulled up to the kitchen counter.
Her cat had heard her activities in the kitchen and came to investigate, which wasn't surprising given it was past his usual feeding time. She nearly tripped over him turning the corner, but he was persistent and started rubbing his face on her leg.
Sarek pulled the pub chair from beneath the counter and sat, and she felt self-conscious as he watched her. She wanted to ask him so many things, but focused on tea instead. She stood on the tips of her toes to pull another cup from the high cabinet, wobbled a bit, and the cup slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor.
In her attempt to get out of the way, she leapt backwards onto Euclid, who howled, and then she jumped forward in panic, thinking she'd seriously hurt her cat. She stepped squarely onto a large fragment of the broken porcelain and felt instant pain, and finally completely lost her balance and fell forward onto her hands. Her left hand landed on another large shard of the broken cup and when she tried to raise herself to a sitting position, it slipped from underneath her in the warm blood already pooling on the floor.
"Miss Grayson, are you injured?"
She looked down at the disaster her tiny kitchen floor had turned into, and noticed the cup was part of a pair that her father had given her for her birthday, and she did the last thing she ever wanted to do in front of Sarek: she burst into tears. She sat up, leaning her back on the kitchen cabinet and saw that he had come into the kitchen. She saw an actual emotional expression on his face for the first time, and it was one of complete, utter discomfort.
He didn't linger long in the kitchen entryway; upon seeing her wounds he immediately began searching through the drawers and found a pair of clean blue dishtowels. Her kitchen was barely more than a meter wide but he stooped in the narrow space and quickly took her wrist. He removed the piece of porcelain embedded in her palm and placed one of the towels in her fist and held it closed.
"I need to tend to your foot," he said. "Do you have a medical kit?"
"In the hall closet; there's a dermal regenerator in there."
Her tears had all but subsided and she started to feel like a complete idiot. She twisted her leg to look at her foot and was horrified to see a chunk of porcelain about five centimeters long buried deep in the arch.
"Is Euclid ok?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I presume you refer to your cat. Judging by the speed he departed your kitchen, he did not suffer any permanent injury."
He returned with the small black medical kit and knelt down by her side again. She tried to sit up better to reach her foot, but the angle was awkward.
"Will you permit me to treat your foot?" he asked, opening her medical kit.
She sighed and nodded and he spread the other dishtowel across his knee and lifted her foot up onto it. Amanda felt a jerk of pain as he extracted the sharp debris and began suturing it closed with the small, hand held laser device.
"Your hand," he said, shifting his weight and leaning closer to her.
She pulled the blood-soaked dishtowel from her fist to expose the deep cut and he gently took her by the wrist. They had never been so close, and she felt her eyes drawn toward the angular lines of his face. As she watched him, she soon became aware that he had stopped moving. Her eyes trailed upward toward his and she discovered he was looking at her.
His face was smooth and unchanging as ever, but at this distance, she could discern an expression that she couldn't quite put words to. It felt like an eternity that they sat that way, neither of them breathing or moving but simply watching each other.
Amanda breathed and inched her chin forward and soon her lips met his.