Sarek opened the door to his quarters and stepped aside to let Amanda pass. She crossed the threshold and turned to wait for him. He noticed her eyes move about the large, open living room in curiosity. He hadn't been confident she would agree to come and now that she was here he found himself uncertain of how to accommodate a human female.
He had never entertained any guests in his home on Earth during his entire tenure on the planet. He knew most ambassadors from other Federation member planets brought their families, hosted gatherings, and kept a moderately sized staff to cook and clean, but he had little need for such things. A woman came by to clean once a week but often left after about twenty minutes, both because he was meticulously tidy and also because he was rarely at home.
For that reason he kept no food here. There was a replicator in the kitchen that he occasionally used but he ate most meals at the consulate. Humans had the curious but efficient desire to discuss important business over meals, and that custom kept him fed without the need to return home to dine. At least the quarters were equipped with four large bedrooms, a formal dining room, a sitting room, and the necessary day-to-day items such as dishes, cookware and towels.
He noted the perspiration beginning to accumulate on her forehead and adjusted the environmental controls from 42ºC to 25ºC to better suit her physiology.
"You have a lovely home," she murmured, looking back at him with wide eyes.
"Thank you," he replied. "There is a large bedroom at the end of the hall with a private lavatory. I am sure it will be suitable to your needs."
"Ah," she replied with a bob of her head, wandering to the hallway on the right.
He watched her walk out of view and extracted his PADD from inside his cloak and checked the time. 1859. They had said little in the shuttle on the way there. He had held her hand to calm her, though admittedly he found the close contact with her personally agreeable as well. He was baffled that she would again take his hand after she seemed so angry at the beach. Now he had to actively work to keep her from diverting his thoughts.
He typed out a message to the undersecretary of the Vulcan High Council seeking an emergency meeting with Councilwoman T'Lona at the earliest opportunity. He did the math in his head and realized the soonest he could reasonably expect to hear back would be in approximately seven hours. He sat on the black chaise lounge chair in the front room and waited for her to return. Now that she was in a safer location and no longer hysterical, he wanted to further inquire about Congressman Molineaux and Admiral Bentham.
There were other things he wanted to ask about as well, but now was not the time. He wasn't certain there would ever be a correct time.
He waited for ten minutes, his sensitive ears scanning the space for sounds of movement in the room down the hall but he could detect none. Cautiously he rose to his feet and moved down the hallway and paused for a time outside of her door, uncertain what sort of protocol was appropriate. A Vulcan would consider it rude to intrude upon a guest in any way with the door closed, excepting cases of emergency.
It was approaching the approximate hour when many Vulcans meditated, but she wasn't Vulcan and he had no way of knowing what was customary for her in the middle of the evening. He debated retreating from her door and meditating himself: he'd gone far too long without regular meditation and he strongly suspected it had a role in his inability to curb his emotions around her. Yet it was illogical to suppose an hour of meditation now would have a significant effect on his problem, so he held his breath and was about to knock when she opened the door.
"I was just washing up. I hope you weren't waiting on me," she stammered.
"No, I did not wish to interrupt you."
"It's your home. And I'm really thankful that you're letting me stay here…"
"Is something the matter?"
Her eyes looked at the floor and shifted right and left before she said, "A lot of things, but there's nothing wrong with you."
"I appreciate the difficulty of your present situation," he said.
"I hope you don't think I'm being ungrateful, because really, you've done so much for me already, but... what am I supposed to do when I get to Vulcan?"
"I have arranged for you to stay at my private residence in Shi'Kahr. There is no one there at present, but I shall ensure you have whatever you require."
He registered acute surprise on her face. "That's really- I don't… want to impose on you. And I don't really have any way to repay you."
"I am not seeking recompense. Your information has assisted me personally, and Vulcan also. It is I who is repaying you."
"I don't see how anything I told you could be helpful," she sighed.
"I do not have all the facts of the investigation myself," he admitted. "Though if it would not upset you, I would ask if we could review the information you provided earlier, now that you have regained control of your mental faculties."
She smiled and nodded. He could detect the sound of the acids in her stomach lurching.
"You are hungry," he stated.
"I'll be fine," she said, putting her hands against the doorjamb and taking a step forward.
"I regret that I have no food readily available, but I have a replicator that could probably replicate a variety of Terran dishes."
"A replicator? Like they have in on starships?" she laughed.
"Yes."
"Interesting. I've never eaten replicated food, at least not that I know of. I've heard it tastes the same."
"I have found that to be generally true, though the unit in my home renders many Vulcan dishes more salty than I am accustomed."
"I'm up for whatever you recommend," she replied.
They moved to the kitchen and the lights illuminated automatically and reflected off the hard granite countertops. She moved curiously toward the replicator unit on the wall and stood before it pensively before looking to him for assistance.
"What do you prefer to eat?" he asked.
"What can it make?"
"Whichever recipes have been properly programmed into it."
She opened her mouth to speak but sighed instead, then smirked and turned to the console and lightly tapped the touchscreen. It illuminated the blue interface with a handful of buttons linking to various styles of Terran cuisine and other non-local dishes. He watched her deliberate and tap the nail of her forefinger on the replicator's hard metal casing.
She finally made a choice and cautiously selected a button and the replicator produced a bowl of pink, savory smelling soup. Her eyes lit up in what he perceived to be either delight or puzzlement, and when she looked back at him she was genuinely smiling.
"Bowl and everything, huh?" she asked, cautiously touching the plain white bowl with her index finger.
"I would imagine it prevents your broth from spilling all over the floor."
"It almost sounds like you're teasing me," she said, pursing her lips and looking at him.
He hadn't been, but there was a playfulness in her tone that was more suited to her typical personality. It pleased him to hear, as it implied she was beginning to relax.
"What are you eating?" he asked, taking a step toward her and taking the bowl with one hand and examining it.
"It's called borscht. It's a Russian soup made with beets and served with sour cream. If I remember correctly, you said many Vulcan dishes were varieties of soups and stews."
"So I did, and so they are. Why is this one pink?"
"Because beets are pink?" she replied with a gentle laugh.
He handed the bowl to her and selected the same dish, then moved to a drawer in the center island and extracted two spoons and handed her one. He was about to move to the formal dining room but she started to pull out one of the short, backless stools from underneath the kitchen island.
"You wish to take your evening meal in here?" he asked, surprised by her choice.
"Oh, um, why not?"
"It is customary to take breakfast and solitary lunches in the kitchen, but evening meals are always consumed in the proper dining room," he explained.
"Oh," she said, her cheeks flushing red. "I don't really know much about Vulcan customs. I mean, I know some as they relate to formal situations, but I can't say I'm familiar with the ins and outs of daily life for Vulcans. I guess starting tomorrow I'm going to receive a vigorous education."
He noticed her frown and look down at the bowl in her hand apprehensively. "Is something amiss?"
"I sort of get the sense you went out of your way to arrange all of this for me, and I just don't want to… I don't know… do or say something wrong."
"Vulcans not only understand diversity but also embrace that it is the natural order of the universe. You are not the first human to visit my home world. Additionally, you have spent your entire life learning what other humans expect of you and so it is illogical to presume that you must also be fully acquainted with the nuances of Vulcan culture. I have spent a significant portion of my life on Earth and there are many things that still perplex me about your race."
"I'm not sure if that was supposed to be a lecture or a pep talk, but it did make me feel a little better." She shot him a wan smile.
"If I may offer one piece of advice, Vulcans will more readily accept you if you are not so forthcoming with emotional displays," he suggested.
"Like smiling?" she asked, her smile fading into worry.
"If you can avoid it," he explained. "Though I do not personally mind; I am accustomed to the behaviors of your species."
He retrieved two cloth napkins from a shelf and showed her the way to the dining room and they sat quietly. The soup she had recommended had a curious taste: not delicious, but certainly adequately filling. They sat without speaking for the first half of the meal and he noticed her eyes suggested she was reflecting upon something. Eventually she asked, "What information did you want to review?"
"You mentioned several things from the interplanetary conference that did not make sense. As I recall, you mentioned you had a peculiar conversation with Admiral Bentham. Can you remember what you discussed?"
"I don't know if it was the conversation or just him, but he's very… unnerving. Some people might call it 'charming' maybe, but he was really more scary than anything. He knew who I was because Congressman Molineaux told him, but he knew a lot of things about me, almost like he had read my resume and did his own background investigation. He wanted to know how well I spoke Romulan and Klingon."
"Anything else?" Sarek asked.
She frowned and looked down and he was beginning to recognize she often did that when she was thinking carefully about something.
"I don't remember."
"Very well," he said. "You also mentioned you overheard a conversation between Congressman Molineaux and Admiral Bentham. What was the context?"
"It was right before the banquet. I got ready early and went to his room, but I heard them talking through the door. I don't normally eavesdrop, but there was something about their tone and what they were saying that seemed… not right. I know I heard them talking about Klingons and they said something about a timeline. There was more, I'm sure, I just can't remember. Bentham sounded like he was bossing John around though."
Sarek considered her words and contemplated strategies for helping her recall more information.
"And another thing," she continued. "John asked about my father that night, and he asked about him before too. I thought it was strange because I'd never really talked about my family with him, but all of a sudden he seemed interested."
"What exactly did he ask?"
Amanda put her hands to her temples and sighed. She was quiet for a short time and replied, "I don't remember. I wish I had your memory."
"Would you permit me to try something?" he asked.
She took her hands from the sides of her face and looked at him hopefully. "What?"
"Would you allow me to mind meld with you?"
"Mind meld?" she mumbled.
"Vulcans possess psionic telepathic abilities," he explained. "If you would consent to a meld, we may be able to prevent hours of frustration."
"Telepathic abilities?"
"Yes, it means-"
"I- I know what it means," she stammered. "You want to read my mind. The place where I keep my thoughts. All of my thoughts, many of which are private. Why not just ask to see me naked?"
"I do not intend to cause offense," he responded, trying to ignore the fact that he very nearly had seen her without clothing earlier at her apartment. "It is not quite as open-ended as you suggest. After an initial probe to locate the specific memories, that is all I would access. I am not familiar with the structure of your mind, but I would never deliberately partake in memories or thoughts that would be generally regarded as private, nor disclose them to anyone else. I assure you, I am highly trained and there is a strict code of ethics involved."
"I'm not Vulcan though. How can you be sure it would work on me?"
"I am told it works well on humans."
"You're told? How many humans have you mind-melded with?"
"None," he admitted, eliciting a glare from her that was equal parts stern and scared.
"It isn't just that," she said slowly, "it's… my mind. It's like the only place I have that's just mine."
"I certainly understand your sentiment and your concerns."
"No, you really don't," she said. "I have… many thoughts about you. I mean I appreciate that you wouldn't tell anyone else, but in that case, you are the 'anyone else.'"
Sarek was unsure of how to respond, but her confession surprised him. When he had admitted to her that he cared for her and joined with her in ozh'esta, her reaction had been… temperamental. He had assumed she was curious about the Vulcan custom but didn't hold any romantic regard for him.
Was she now implying that she did? No, that was illogical. Simply having thoughts about him was not indicative of affection. How curious that he would immediately jump to such a logical fallacy...
He prepared to apologize for overstepping his bounds when she looked at him and asked, "Will it hurt?"
He described the process to her as they cleared away their dishes from the table and placed them in the kitchen's reclaimator. He explained that it was merely a painless transfer of thoughts, though occasionally strong emotions could also be transferred. Her trepidation waned slightly yet he could easily discern she wasn't completely convinced that this was a good plan.
They moved back to the sitting room and sat next to each other on the black chaise lounge.
"So I just, focus on the memory and you can… dig it right out?" she asked with a waving gesture of her hands.
He wanted to explain that her description wasn't entirely correct but sensed it was not the appropriate time for such a correction and simply said, "I believe you would say, 'more or less.'"
"Ok," she said, resting her palms on the edge of the sofa.
"You are certain you want to do this?" he confirmed.
"Certain? No. But I will."
"And you are concentrating on the-"
"Yes, just do it," she barked.
He lifted his right hand to her face, hesitated, and then placed the tips of his fingers onto the appropriate points. He watched her eyes reflexively widen and her pupils dilate and felt the warm gasp of her breath on his wrist.
She clearly had no concept of blocking his mental advances as a Vulcan instinctively would. Initially he was alarmed at the ease with which he could permeate her consciousness. It was like falling from a great height and expecting to land on concrete but landing in water instead. He almost broke the meld, but forced himself to concentrate through a growing feeling of intense panic, profound sadness, and… he didn't want to perceive it.
After some faltering, he recognized what he was looking for and retrieved it as quickly as he could. In total it had lasted only fifteen seconds and then he quickly removed his hand from her face, shocked to discover he was breathing hard and his left hand was interlocked with hers. Her face was deeply flushed and her expression almost unrecognizable… but it also wasn't.
He understood what it was, and he knew that she knew. She drew her face close to his and kissed him, releasing his hand to cup both of hers lightly around the sides of his neck. Earlier that morning he had assumed she was emotionally fragile and he was taking advantage of her. Yet through her sadness, uncertainty, and fear he was wholly aware of her intense and steadily growing feelings for him.
He hesitated still, wondering about the lines of his integrity and her emotionality and inexperience when she offered an even greater surprise.
"Please, it's ok…"
She hadn't said it: she had thought it. It hadn't been strong: in fact, he was only vaguely aware of it at the fringes of his perception, but it was there. He felt her growing awkwardness and she started to pull away. Rather than let her retreat, he began to kiss her in return.
He ran his hands up her arms and cradled her neck gently, intertwining his fingers through her soft hair, and then slid his tongue across the part in her lips. Her confidence was renewed and she brushed his tongue with her own.
Then two things happened. She had started to lean onto the high back of the chaise, gently pulling him on top of her and he became mindful of how tightly he was now clutching her neck. She made a garbled squeaking noise and he loosened his grip, afraid of how fragile she really was and afraid of himself for momentarily forgetting that fact. Their kiss ended and they pulled their faces away simultaneously, their hands still holding one another tenderly about their necks.
He looked straight into her eyes, noting how alive she looked. She was breathing so hard she was almost panting and he could feel her emotions. She was a jumble of conflicting emotion.
He continued to study her, wondering if these intense, chaotic feelings were typical of the human experience. If they were, he had the sense that he had grossly misjudged humanity: the fact that they could endure life at all without going insane or turning to logic as Vulcans had was an impressive achievement.
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, then rested his forehead upon hers. He could feel their heated breath mingling together and fought the urge to revisit their previous intimate activities.
His PADD beeped from its position on the nearby coffee table and he snapped back to the present reality. He reluctantly let go of her and tried to reassemble his thoughts. He focused on his breathing and with monumental effort reached across her to take possession of his PADD.
The display screen showed a message from the Vulcan High Command directly. Not the undersecretary or the clerk, but a message directly from Councilwoman T'Lona, simply stating, "I require an immediate secure conference. Acknowledge."
It was logical to assume the matter was extremely exigent, given it was the middle of the night in Shi'Kahr. His mind wove through the information he had obtained through the mind meld with Amanda and integrated it into his own awareness. He continued to breathe steadily to improve his focus, swiped across the message, and typed out a quick reply.
"Is everything ok?" Amanda asked.
The frenzied look was gone and had been replaced by inquisitive worry. Without touching her he couldn't feel her emotions quite as well as he had earlier.
"I am required at the consulate," he stated, rising to his feet.
"Now? It's 2030 hours," she argued, still sitting.
"I believe I understand the situation with the Comstock more fully following our mind meld," he said. "My theory is somewhat speculative, but it may be possible to derive the truth when the information you have provided is taken together with the information that the Vulcan High Council possesses."
"When will you be back?" she asked.
"I do not know, but you should be safe here. May I take your Tellarite star charts with me?
"Uh, yeah," she muttered, going to the bedroom to collect them.
He moved to the reception closet and removed his cloak and she soon returned. After putting his arms through the sleeves he turned back to her. Her hands were shaking as she handed him the collection of charts and she clasped her hands together and continued to watch him expectantly.
He approached her and thoughtfully touched his thumb to her chin and leaned down to kiss her. It was more relaxed than it had been earlier and when he pulled away this time he could discern a peculiar brightness to her expression.
"I shall likely only be gone for several hours," he said.
She nodded wordlessly and walked him to the door as he requested a car from his PADD. He stepped out onto the stone walkaway and was about to depart when he looked over his shoulder to her standing in the doorway. She smiled nervously, nodded to him, and closed it. He heard the click of the electronic lock, nodded to himself, and walked away.
Vera awoke in muted agony. She couldn't quite tell where the pain was coming from, why she was in pain, or what hurt worse: the burn on her side, the ache of her shoulders, or her head.
When she tried to speak, she noticed the presence of a heavy sensor attached to her neck and that prevented her from making any vocalizations at all. The only noise she could make was a soft whistle if she breathed out forcefully.
She had silent tears flowing down her cheeks as she tried to recall exactly how she ended up in the dimly lit room with her arms wrenched soundly behind her back. She was walking down the sidewalk… she was in the bushes looking for Amanda's cat… there was a man… he asked if she was Amanda Grayson… she saw his black shoes… then she was here.
She tried to catch her breath but the silence of her crying was frightening. She wanted to wail and demand to know what she was doing here but all she was left with was the sound of her own hyperventilation. She heard muffled voices from behind the cracked door and tried to pull herself together but she continued to cry.
"Give her the cordafin; that will wake her up."
"I'd be surprised if she wakes up at all after you hit her at that range. The instructions clearly said 'alive.' That implies at least able to talk, not just clinically alive."
"Look, it was a sketchy job to begin with and I didn't have a lot to go on. It was the middle of the afternoon and in public-"
"Just give her the damn stimulant."
The door opened and more light flooded into the room and Vera squinted and looked away. Three men entered the room and she started screaming, but no sound came out.
"See, I told you she'd come around," said a tall man with his hands in his pockets.
"We have to tell the admiral," said a middle-aged balding man. "The Tafv can't transport her for another twenty-nine minutes, but he'll want to know."
"No," said a third man, whose features Vera couldn't make out with her poorly adjusted eyes.
"He said every minute counted," argued the middle-aged man. "I say we start now."
"So when do I get paid?" insisted the tall man.
"You don't," said the third man.
"What? Do you know what I went through-"
"You don't," interrupted the third man, "because that's not Amanda Grayson."
"Of course it is! Look, this is the picture you sent me."
The man pulled out a handheld device and walked over the Vera, grabbed her roughly by the hair, and held the device up next to her face.
"No, it's not her," said the middle-aged man in surprise.
"What are you talking about? 'Course it is."
He released her hair and looked at the screen of the device more closely. Vera looked away and slumped back against the wall, her scalp throbbing.
"We gotta tell the admiral," said the middle-aged man, pulling out a small PADD.
"No," said the third man.
"What's with you? You're losing it."
"I said 'no,'" replied the third man.
"Well look at this," said the middle-aged man, showing the PADD screen to the third man. "He already knows. I don't know how he knows, but he's saying she's at the Vulcan ambassador's house."
"Ok, if that's not Amanda Grayson, who is it?" asked the tall man, pointing back to Vera.
"No one," replied the third man. "No one that matters anyway."
"If we get rid of her, he'll never know we even grabbed the wrong girl," said the tall man. "I can go get the real Amanda Grayson now. I've got access cards for down at the embassy. I could easily talk my way into the housing complex. I think transporting would be too risky but-"
"No," snapped the third man.
"Look, he messed this one up," said the middle-aged man, pointing back to Vera. "But he's never been wrong before. And who else is going to do it? You? You'd be recognized before you even got out of the car."
"Yeah, let me fix this," urged the tall man. "I'll take a small crew and we'll say we're maintenance. It'll be legit."
The third man sighed and nodded as the tall man left the room and called out behind him, "The transport shuttle is leaving in less than two hours. They're having a hard enough time keeping that thing cloaked as it is. So I suggest you hurry."
"We still have to get rid of her," said the middle-aged man, crossing his arms and nodding toward Vera. "I'll do it. You can go back to the coms room."
She put her cheek against the cool, smooth wall and tried to pretend like this wasn't happening. She couldn't think of a meaning for "get rid of her" that ended well when she was tied up and gagged.
"No," replied the third man. "I'll do it."
"You couldn't do it earlier this afternoon. But sure, maybe you grew a pair. Go ahead: get your hands dirty. Call if you need anything," said the middle-aged man as he left.
Vera was alone in the room with the third man and cried harder as she watched him shut the door and swallow them both into darkness. She heard his footsteps on the hard floor and struggled in vain to free herself and screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And still no sound came out. The third man walked over to the opposite wall and turned on a small, singular, overhead light that bathed the room in a yellowish light.
He turned around to look at her and Vera recoiled in shock. It was John Molineaux.