RoH 18

Scars Like Medals

Stardate 2260.269, 1600 hours, Deck 7, Theater

Humming a Vulcan lullaby, Nyota entered her quarters to freshen up for band practice. After a very productive day (thus far, at least) she had a spring in her step and a smile on her face. She had organized a workshop for the languages of Arrakis, covering Chakobsa – the language spoken by all tribes – as well as the three major Fremen dialects. All communications officers not on bridge duty and several teachers had participated; an excellent attendance record. Fremen native speakers and one of the Vulcan priests had volunteered their services for the workshop, and that had really made a difference.

Stepping into the shower – for once she was going to indulge in real water instead of sonics – she contemplated the Fremen language acquisition project. So far, it was hands down the most satisfying project of her career. And pretty much a textbook example for applied xenolinguistics.

When the Enterprise had arrived in orbit around Arrakis, the universal translator had been in a sore state concerning the Fremen languages – to put it mildly. And even though most Fremen had some Standard, thanks to the involvement of the smugglers on the planet, the ability to speak and understand a people’s native tongue still formed the best foundation for good diplomatic relations. As Chief Communications Officer of the Enterprise, Nyota had put together a suitable study program for Fremen languages. Now, close to the end of their stay, Nyota and several other officers were almost fluent in basic Chakobsa, and the universal translator was up to date.

She released a generous dollop of sandalwood shower gel from the dispenser in the wall and started lathering up.

Of course she wouldn’t rate the Fremen languages as particularly difficult – they shared astounding similarities with Terran Arabic, so the sounds and semantics came easily to Humans. Compared to many other alien tongues, at least. In terms of language acquisition the mostly oral tradition of Fremen culture had formed the biggest hurdle. Learning languages without books was a hassle, plain and simple.

Clean, her skin hot and damp and subtly scented, Nyota emerged from the shower and grabbed her towel, still mulling over her project.

The lack of books could have been easily remedied. She would have put together a book on Fremen languages within the first two weeks in orbit, if she’d only been permitted to do so! But no, the rules and regs concerning contact with contaminated cultures didn’t allow that. Worse, thanks to Starfleet bureaucracy, every single step of the learning process had amounted to a diplomatic incident. By now Nyota was determined to stand shoulder to shoulder with the captain when he told the admiralty to go to hell when they argued Prime Directive issues with him next time. (She’d cheer him on, in fact.)

Amused at herself, she pulled some civvies from her closet. A long, flowing skirt and tight, layered tops to go with it. Feminine and comfortable, perfect for band practice. That was perhaps the best part of having civilians on board: it was completely normal to change and even to dress up when off duty. A simple pony tail, and just a hint of make-up, she decided. Eyes, cheeks, lips – a subtle, but effective frame. Five minutes. There, done.

When she quickly checked her PADD to make sure she had all the scores loaded for band practice, John’s transmissions signal – a 20^th century classic, Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – started playing. She glanced at the clock. Time enough to read his message? Probably not. His letters were long. But she couldn’t resist. She missed him. His passionate, filthy mind, his acerbic wit, his outrageous sense of humor, even his terrible talent for picking up the worst kind of gossip. (She still couldn’t fathom how her boyfriend, light-years away on Earth, sometimes knew more about what was happening on board of the Enterprise than she did.)

Perhaps that was what prompted her to scan his message right away. Somewhere in the middle, a paragraph caught her attention.

“… You once asked me about the security of subspace transmissions. These days I must say I question both the safety of Starfleet encryption methods and the sanity of certain members of the admiralty. That said, please pass on my felicitations to the star-met couple, along with a reminder to use either my own or Spock’s encryptions or to send their messages straight to the tabloids instead …”

What?!

Her brain stuttered, ground to a stop, rebooted laboriously, even as her heart started pounding. She should have realized. At some point two or three years ago, she had spent days researching Vulcan Bonding and Mating customs. And now … Kirk and Spock. Vulcan mind healers. And a really long leave. Like a honeymoon … or a period of seclusion after Bonding …

Nyota switched off the PADD and stared off into space (or at least at the door to her cabin). She recalled the day Kirk had died. How Scotty had held her as she cried. How she had realized that very moment just why her relationship with Spock had been falling apart. How she had still waited until November – until it was certain that Kirk would make a complete recovery – to break things off with Spock.

Star-met? What an odd phrase, yet strangely fitting for Spock and Kirk. She wondered where John had heard it. Suddenly she couldn’t suppress a smile, remembering how Kirk had ruined her breakfast way back in May after the first kiss he’d shared with Spock. Star-struck, definitely. Maybe it wasn’t such a miracle that they’d Bonded – that Kirk had developed the patience and decency to do this the right way.

More important than news of the captain’s love life, however, was the warning cleverly hidden in John’s gossip. The lack of security where subspace transmissions were concerned was nothing new. Which was exactly why Nyota had reluctantly agreed to pass on any messages John might have for Kirk. Even if John’s or Spock’s encryptions were more secure than standard Starfleet safety protocols, nothing was one hundred percent safe – and John’s communications were closely monitored. If he were to send encoded transmissions to a starship captain that would be noticed. Sending long letters to his girlfriend was a different matter. So what did John want her to pass on? She scanned his message once more and ticked off the points he’d made: Subspace transmissions are not safe; you cannot trust Starfleet Command; confidential, private information about Kirk and Spock has been leaked. And, by the way, tell them congrats on getting hitched.

The alarm of her PADD startled her out of her musings. Damn! Now she had to run to be in time for band practice. And Barry Milekey absolutely loathed tardiness.

Nyota rushed to the theater and almost stumbled over her own feet in the doorway. Talk of the devil! Kirk was there. He was in the last row, sitting with Hikaru, Doctor McCoy, and Lieutenant Carolyn Paul, his attention focused on a familiar figure up on the stage.

The only reason she didn’t end up flat on her face was that she ran right into Lieutenant Elena Amell.

“Oh, hi, Nyota, sorry,” Len started. “Uh… everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Or something,” she agreed before she could bite her tongue. “The captain.” Len threw her a very weird glance, and Nyota wondered if John wasn’t the only wheel running the Starfleet rumor mill in this particular case. “Oh, never mind,” she managed. “Just haven’t seen him in a while, and he’s never shown up for band practice before. Doctor McCoy is probably blackmailing him.” (That might even be true, come to think of.)

Len followed her gaze and did a very visible double take. “They’re here? Both of them? I thought they—”

Oookay… “What do you know?” Nyota hissed. “Spill.”

Len flushed and looked away. “Nothing.”

Nyota didn’t move. Len grimaced. “Not here, okay? I promised Scotty I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. And I haven’t. But since it’s you … Can we talk later? Go to the bar or something?”

“Oh yes,” Nyota said. In a way, that was just an act of loyalty, right? Finding out who else knew whatever. As nonchalantly as possible, she waved at everyone as she entered the room. “Hey, Jim, Hikaru. And Jo’s fan club, I see.” She wondered where Thorby was today – normally, the little Vulcan and Jo were joined at the hip. McCoy’s scowl made her grin. Tossing back her ponytail, she made her way to the stage.

Spock had already set up his lute. He didn’t seem to notice her at all. Taking her cue from his non-reaction, she stayed as far away from him as the seating arrangement on the stage allowed. A new Bond could affect a Vulcan’s emotional control. Nyota didn’t feel like testing the effect. She turned away and stared at the front of the stage. At the conductor’s note stand, Barry Milekey stood poring over the scores with Cupcake and Thea Oli. Suddenly Nyota realized that they hadn’t much time left before the first official concert. To be nervous over something as trivial as that was silly, of course. But she hadn’t been up on a stage for a serious concert in ages, and now she was supposed to sing a solo – a Vulcan song, no less.

A few minutes later, Milekey clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s get on with the show. First a quick warm-up with the Enterprise song. Then we’ll go over the pieces for the concert. I trust all soloists are prepared today?” He spared a filthy glare for an especially recalcitrant saxophone.

Nyota suppressed a groan. She hated the Enterprise song with a passion. (The song had nothing to do with the Enterprise; it was just an endless Starfleet drinking song complete with absurd dance routines, interchangeable lyrics, and at least a hundred verses, most of them not suitable for work. Or anything else, really.) Unfortunately, everyone else loved the damn song. The command crew spent an inordinate amount of time every shore leave coming up with new verses to torture her with. So far, Spock had always seemed immune to the phenomenon. But glancing at him right now she wasn’t so sure anymore. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Just a little. But she knew that expression well. He always got that look when something utterly illogical amused him more than Vulcan logic strictly permitted.

“Star Trekkin’ across the universe,
On the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk.
Star Trekkin’ across the universe,
Only going forward ’cause we can’t find reverse …”

On the plus side, the awful excuse for a song left every band member energized and focused. Nyota had to hand it to Milekey. He knew what he was doing, the way he organized band practice.

Barry clapped his hands. “All right, on with the show. Today I want us to focus on technique, especially on rhythm and tempo. We’ll start with the opening piece. Instruments only, please. And one – two – three …”

Off they were. Buoyed by the good mood that silly song had generated, they threw themselves into the music. The saxophones must have practiced together. They were not only in perfect harmony but on time. After the first pass, Barry looked reluctantly impressed. “And now with the chorus,” he ordered. “Make some noise, people!” Many of the singers had a background in classical European choir music – their interpretation was consistently too solemn and too soft.

Next on Barry’s list was the most challenging arrangement of their concert: a medley from “Stories of Stars” or “Var t’Yelar” – the famous cycle of Vulcan-Terran fusion songs widely hailed as the “Carmina Burana” of the 22^nd century. Last time their efforts had still sounded rather pathetic (except for Spock’s parts, of course, but there was only so much a Vulcan harp player could do to save the day without resorting to nerve pinches).

When they’d finally managed a more or less acceptable run-through, Barry called for a break. Nyota was drenched in sweat and her stomach muscles were hurting. Clutching her water bottle, she dropped into a chair and listened to Barry bitching out the flutes. No authentic kolchak; they had to make do with Terran woodwind flutes, and maybe that was the problem. At least the bells and the gongs had been on their toes today. There was more melody to the “Var t’Yelar” than to classical Vulcan music, but the rhythm was all Vulcan perfectionism. If the drums, gongs, and bells weren’t precisely on time, it was pretty much game over.

The rest of the session went rather well. The flutes manned up, and the saxophones didn’t space out. When they were done, even Barry had to admit that there was audible progress. Things were coming together now, in shared vibes of rhythm and harmony. A few weeks ago Nyota wouldn’t have believed that possible. The participants had seemed just too diverse in age, musical experience, and talent. There were kids, like Jo and Gus (though Gus Stein was something of a wunderkind), random civilians and crew members who simply enjoyed making music, as well as nearly professional musicians such as Giotto, Milekey, or herself. A motley group in every way. But today, for the first time, she could hear it. Music. They were making music together. Not just producing noise meshed more or less together.

As a reward for their hard work, Barry asked Spock to finish up their practice session with his solo. The last piece of the concert would be an instrumental piece played by Spock on the ka’athyra, the Vulcan lyre – and of course Spock was already stage-perfect. Nyota smiled. Listening to Spock was the perfect incentive. The members of the band found seats in the front rows of the theater. Only Spock remained on the stage, as calm and expressionless as ever. When everyone had settled, he began to play.

Nyota knew the piece well. It was an instrumental version of a song called “Shadows in the Garden”. The tune portrayed a Vulcan rock garden. Each verse was dedicated to a different shade of red, a specific shape of stone, and a distinct shadow. Each of those symbols represented a unique Bond, the most basic and most complex connections that made up Vulcan society as a whole. The melody was haunting, the harmony harsh for human ears. From the corner of her eye she watched the reactions of the audience. Predictably, McCoy looked as if he was suffering from a bad case of migraine. She couldn’t even blame him – Vulcan music was an acquired taste, much like bagpipes or opera. Kirk, however, looked enraptured. And Spock … Nyota had never seen him like that before. He was lost in more than his music.

Joanna McCoy, who’d ended up in the chair next to Nyota, leaned a little closer. “It’s supposed to be a secret because they are still on sick leave,” the girl whispered in a mixture of horror and awe, “but they got married. They eloped. And my dad says if I ever even think of doing that he’ll chain me up in the brig until I’m a hundred years old. He did keep them locked up in sickbay for punishment, too.”

Somehow Nyota managed to stay quiet and to shush the girl, torn between amusement and concern. She had no idea that Spock and Kirk had ended up in sickbay, and she wondered what had happened – what had gone wrong. Then the song was over, and everyone jumped to their feet, applauding, clapping, even whistling. Nyota winced in sympathy at Spock’s subtly tortured expression. Such exuberant displays of emotion still tended to overwhelm him. But then Kirk bounded up to him and sat down at the edge of the stage, dangling his legs. Even from the distance, Nyota noticed the intense, intimate connection between the two men, though they did not touch. Whatever had been wrong with Spock and Kirk, they seemed to be all right now. More than all right, even. She sighed, all of a sudden missing John with a fierce ache in her heart.

Next to her, a familiar, grumpy voice exhaled a long suffering sigh. “No, Jo. You can’t go play zero-grav ball tonight. You’ve promised me some family time while Thorby is visiting with Sybok and his family. Put away your clarinet and get your stuff, then we’ll go have dinner. Yes, pizza. And yes, a movie, too.” Nyota watched as Jo ran off. McCoy offered Nyota a wry smile before focusing his attention on the stage, where Spock demonstrated his instrument to Kirk.

“Jo mentioned you had them ‘locked up’ in sickbay,” Nyota said softly. “I hope it was nothing serious, Doctor. Will there be a public announcement of their Bonding soon?”

“Of course you would realize what’s up. Should have known.” McCoy groaned and rolled his eyes. “And yeah, I should think so. They just decided to wait until things have settled a bit. And I’d rather err on the side of caution at this stage, so I didn’t object.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Not eager to offer your congratulations?”

“As you said, I realize what’s up,” she told him. Well, she did now. And she really should have, even without John’s message. “There was a time when I had reasons to research Vulcan mating behavior. A month’s leave might be a honeymoon or traditional seclusion after Bonding. But if you had them staying in sickbay, I guess it’s safe to say that ‘things’ didn’t go without a hitch. So pardon me if I’m not jumping at the chance to discover just what kind of reaction exposure to an ex-partner might trigger in a newly Bonded Vulcan-Human couple.” From the door, Elena Amell and Carolyn Paul waved at her. “And now excuse me, please. Looks like I’ve got a date for a girls’ night out.”

McCoy followed her gaze and frowned. “Oh, no,” he muttered. “Those two. Uhura, do yourself a favor. Stay away from them. They are trouble. Or at least stay away from the pool.”

“The pool?” Nyota blinked at the doctor and shook her head. “I must be seriously out of the loop. Well, gotta go.” She waved to Kirk and Spock up on the stage; she’d comm Kirk the next day to pass on John’s message. Before making her way to the exit, she turned to McCoy and allowed herself a small smirk. “And, Doctor McCoy? Tell them to get a move on with that public announcement. Rumors are spreading. From Earth, no less.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.269, 1800 hours, Deck 7, Theater, and Deck 4, CMO’s Quarters

Jo carefully cleaned her bass clarinet and stowed the parts in the fake black leather case. The instrument was just a standard student’s model, but better than nothing. She loved being in the Enterprise band. For the first time in her life she belonged to a band with adults and real musicians, and that was awesome. Intimidating, too, because she was one of the weakest participants – she’d barely made the cut at auditions. But she kept practicing, and Mr. Milekey hadn’t kicked her out of the band so far.

She closed her clarinet case. Up on the stage her dad clapped Uncle Jim on the shoulder. Then he climbed down and came over to her. He smiled. “Ready for an evening with your old dad?”

“Yessir,” she replied, flicking off a mock salute. She’d been on the Enterprise for around five months now. Sometimes she felt as if she’d spent her whole life on board already. After Uncle Jim had found her in the reading fort, routine had taken over her life within a week. Her dad had moved to larger quarters in the VIP section on deck four with her the very next day. Just three days later Ms. Paul had introduced her at school. That had been all kinds of embarrassing. At least Gus had been majorly impressed, and they’d stayed friends.

“So what do you want to do with just the two of us around tonight?” her dad asked.

Thorby was on Arrakis, visiting Sybok and his family for a week. Jo hated that. She was envious, for one thing. She hadn’t been “dirtside” yet at all, and that was so annoying. Of course her dad had been on the surface several times already … and had only complained about everything, about the heat and the dust and the food and the people. She sighed. At least there’d be a school trip to Arrakeen before the Enterprise left orbit. Carolyn (outside of school Jo could call her Carolyn instead of Ms. Paul) had promised. Jo also hated that Thorby wouldn’t be home tonight because she didn’t sleep well without him. Of course she knew that Thorby needed to spend time with his own people. And Sybok was nice and T’Maire was a hoot. Jo knew she was being jealous, and that jealousy was not a nice trait. But she just couldn’t shut up that stupid voice in her mind that insisted that Thorby didn’t belong to anyone else, Vulcan or not, that she was Thorby’s people, and that she should be enough.

Jo shrugged. “Dunno.”

She considered her options. Her dad made such a point of spending time with her, with her and Thorby, but also just with her. But it was always kind of forced. As if he was working off a schedule, as if he worried about getting graded, as if he was scared of what she might do next. And that was her fault. She grabbed her clarinet case. It had been worse on Earth, though. Her dad blamed himself that she and her mother had been in San Francisco when the Vengeance had crashed. Even though that was stupid. If anyone was to blame, it was Admiral Marcus. Or her mother. Because her mother wouldn’t allow her dad to stay at their house in Georgia “because you are not a part of our life here, Leonard”, and her dad didn’t have a proper apartment anymore. That’s why they’d stayed in San Francisco so Jo could visit with her dad after the conference was over that her mother had attended. Jo tried to remember how it had been when her dad had still lived at home, when they’d still been a family. But that was so long ago that she had no clear memories left. Mostly she remembered how much she’d missed him when he was gone.

“Pizza?” she reminded him hopefully. “And a holo?”

“Sure. We had a deal, after all,” her dad said. “Let’s go.”

Her dad didn’t even groan when she picked “Khan III” as the movie. It was a bit dated (like, from 2240), but she loved it. The actor was way prettier than the real Khan, too. And for some reason the replicated pizza was loads better than the last time she’d tried it. Weird. Maybe someone had updated the code?

“We should get those ancient Superman movies to watch with Thorby when he gets home,” she said after the movie, stacking together plates and cutlery to take back to the recycling station, “I bet he’d like the story. I mean, Superman lost his planet, too, and then he found a new family.”

“Jo, you know that …” her dad started. “You know that we’re not really Thorby’s family, do you?”

“What?” she squeaked and put the plates back on the coffee table. Panic gripped her. Surely he couldn’t mean … “But we are! He’s been living with us since he came on board. Of course we are.”

“Jo, sweetie, I know you’re good friends. And that’s wonderful. You’ve been very good with Thorby,” her dad said carefully. He had that look in his eyes, though. That serious look that she recognized from when he’d decided that she had to stay on Earth, that she’d be sent to live with her aunt and uncle. “But Thorby’s Vulcan. We’ve talked about Thorby’s problems before, and about his telepathy. He needs a Vulcan family, not a human one. I understand that you want to keep him around. We always want to keep our friends around. But as his friend, you need to think of what he needs and not just of what you want.”

No, Jo thought, no, no, no. Thorby needs me. Not strange Vulcans he doesn’t even really know. “No,” she said, “you can’t do that. You can’t just send my best friend away. I’ve been trying so hard to be good, and you said you wouldn’t punish me for sneaking on board—”

“I’m not punishing you,” her dad said sharply. “What happens with Thorby has nothing to do with you. Jo, we need to do what’s best for Thorby. And no matter how much it hurts you, staying with you – with us – is not what’s best for Thorby.”

She was crying now, and she hated that. Her head hurt, and her throat ached, and her teeth, too, because she was grinding them so hard. Because if she didn’t, she would sob like a baby, and she wanted to scream at her dad and be mad at him. But she couldn’t even do that because she could only think of how she wasn’t enough, was never enough, not for her mother, and not for her dad. She’d always reminded her mother too much of her father. And since San Francisco, she reminded her father too much of her mother and her mother’s death. Because no matter what he said, he hadn’t wanted her here, with him. And now she wasn’t even enough for Thorby.

“I know this is hard, sweetie,” her dad said and awkwardly patted her back, “but we have to be very brave now and do what’s best for Thorby, don’t you think? Because anything else would be selfish and cruel. And I know you’re not like that. You’re strong and brave and generous.”

She shook her head, her vision blurred with tears. She didn’t want to be brave. She wanted to keep Thorby. How was she supposed to even sleep at night without him?

“And when the mission is over,” her dad said, “we can go to New Vulcan and visit Thorby. It will be an adventure. How’s that?”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.275, 1900 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Quarters

“So, how did things go?” Jim asked.

Sybok had just beamed back on board with Thorby and dropped him off with Carolyn Paul and Jo. Now Spock’s brother sat in the living area of Jim’s quarters, across from Spock and next to Bones. Janice Rand passed around tea and coffee, before she discretely left the cabin again. Jim picked up his peppermint tea and focused on the pale green-golden liquid.

He should be happy that Bones, Sybok, and M’Benga figured that he and Spock were stable enough to talk about serious business again without freaking out at the slightest provocation. They’d better be, too. In just five days they were supposed to resume regular duty. Thankfully, Jim figured they were indeed ready to return to normal life.

Melding for most of the night made all the difference. Neither Jim nor Spock had ever slept that well (or that long). Bones and M’Benga were still head over heels for their blood test results. Thankfully, they focused their attention on Spock now. The differences in Spock’s baseline before and after the Bonding made them theorize how his Vulcan control led him to neglect his human needs, such as more sleep and more physical contact than an average Vulcan required. Spock had never considered that because he’d interpreted any symptoms as a personal failure at basic mental discipline. But apparently “touch-starved” was an actual thing; a fact that made Jim’s heart ache and Spock uncomfortable and Bones look faintly murderous.

Jim took a deep breath and looked up from his minty herbal infusion. Since Spock had rewired his brain after their Spice overdose, Jim couldn’t drink more than a single cup of coffee a day – in the morning, too, or he couldn’t sleep at night. One glass of anything that contained alcohol was the current limit of his alcohol tolerance. His brain reacted to stimulants as if he were a child. Bones thought that was funny as hell. Jim did not. Spock was disgustingly smug about the whole thing. Anyway. They were mostly ready to get back to business. Serious business, too. And he should be happy about that. But damnit! The serious business at hand right now involved the life of a kid. It was easier to send crew members on life-threatening away missions, and he fucking hated those kinds of decisions.

Sybok watched him with his eerie Spice-blue eyes, and Jim wasn’t sure if the Vulcan hadn’t picked up on exactly how his train of thoughts had just played out, waiting patiently with his answer until Jim managed to concentrate on the discussion.

“Thorby and T’Maire got along well,” Sybok reported. Jim could hear the “but” in his voice, and sadly was not disappointed, when Spock’s brother went on, “mostly thanks to T’Maire’s unusual emotional flexibility and high degree of control for her age. Thorby remains extremely unbalanced. To recover his mental equilibrium and regain a robust control over his emotions he needs the Bonds a Vulcan boy his age is supposed to have: familial Bonds to parents and a betrothal Bond to a mentally compatible child of a suitable age.”

Jim nodded slowly. Of course Thorby needed Bonds. Shit. Should have thought of that. Suddenly, he felt ashamed. So much so that his throat constricted. Had he really thought of Thorby only in terms of whatever information had been stored in the boy’s mind? Hell, even based on “Vulcan Culture 101”, he ought to have known better. What kind of self-absorbed asshole had he turned into, that he could neglect the needs of a child in his care? Was that the inevitable consequence of his own childhood? His head felt frozen from the inside. He winced at the icy agony in his mind and gasped for breath. That fucking hurt. “What the hell?”

Next to him Spock seemed to talk, but Jim couldn’t hear a word. When Spock tried to touch him, his reaching hand faltered.

“Spock?” Jim rasped, suddenly scared. He couldn’t breathe. “Spock?!”

“Jim?” Bones knelt at his side and whipped out his tricorder. “What’s wrong? What’s happening to him, Sybok?”

Sybok pushed past Bones and bent over Jim, a hand on his meld points before Jim had a chance to say another word. “Jim, you have closed the connection of the Bond. To be able to regulate the level of connection between your mind and the mind of your Bondmate is a necessary skill. That you are able to do so now means that your Bond has settled fully. This is a normal process. I had planned for you to begin mental exercises to practice that ability tomorrow, in fact. Now. Take Spock’s hands and interlace your fingers. Close your eyes and concentrate on your linked hands, on the connection between you.”

Jim obeyed. He was blind and deaf and choking. At the same time he could see and hear and breathe just fine. He could still sense Spock, but as if … as if he was on the other side of a glass door. And that was the very last image he needed in his mind. He was starting to shake, to gasp for breath in helpless panic. But before he could move, before he could start hyperventilating, Sybok was in his thoughts, a burning force. The mind healer simply shoved Jim right through the glass toward Spock, ruthlessly ripping open his mind in the process.

»Spockspockspockspock. Oh, god, Spock!«

»… Jim.« A flood of – shock – love – support – shame – burst into his mind. »In no way was your treatment of the child negligent. You have done everything in your power to ensure that Thorby’s needs as a child of any species but especially as Vuhlkansu are met. Have you not asked me to be present the moment he woke on this ship? Have you not insisted that Sybok treat him, the moment this was possible? If anyone has failed Thorby then it was I. I could not help him in his pain, could provide no aid for him in reclaiming his logic—«

No, Spock, Jim thought. Bullshit. A deep breath. Damn it all to hell, he’d believed they were getting the hang of their Bond now! But Vulcan mind voodoo wasn’t something you could learn to manage in five minutes or even a month of sick leave. So. Another deep breath. Jim opened his eyes, putting a firm lid on fifteen years of old issues.

“No, Spock,” he repeated aloud. “That’s bullshit. If I didn’t fail Thorby, you sure as hell didn’t, either. Fact is, neither of us is a child psychiatrist. And you’re no mind healer. But we’ve got a Vulcan mind healer right here, and a qualified psychologist. So we’ll go over the information we have, listen to the experts, and discuss a solution. I’m sorry. I have no idea why I shut down like that.”

“Well, I do,” Bones said gruffly and sat back down. “You already display overprotective tendencies where your crew is concerned. You’re even more sensitive when children are involved. If anyone has made a mistake so far, it was me. Because I know damn well why this conversation is one hell of a trigger for you.”

Jim shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to remember Tarsus IV right now. Or ever. Didn’t want to recall how he begged Kodos, “Please, sir, let them live. I’ll do anything you want, anything you want, anything …” Of how he had done just that. Jim was aware that he still tended to expect that of himself. That he’d do anything. Anything. But he didn’t have such insane expectations of anyone else, and certainly not of a child. Or did he? He shivered, nausea twisting his stomach.

“I’ve been distracted, and I’m sorry for that.” Bones wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s just … I’ve tried to talk to Joanna about Thorby again last night, and I’m afraid she didn’t take it any better than a few days ago. She’s trying, Jim. She’s trying real hard to be all adult and understanding about it. But …” He shrugged awkwardly. “She’s just a little girl, and she’s convinced Thorby is the best friend she’ll ever have.”

Oh, damn. Poor Jo. Jim glanced at Spock, who was still too pale and seemed a little dazed.

»God, I’m so sorry I shut you out like that, Spock,« he thought at his Bondmate. »I didn’t mean to – didn’t even know I could—«

»It is no matter, Jim. As Sybok said, it is a skill we need to master, and a natural process to occur once the Bond has settled. I regret that I was unable to react adequately. My lack of control—«

Jim shook his head. »Stop that right there. I freaked. You freaked. Shit happens. We’ll work it out.« He did his best to forget the unfortunate image that had nearly turned his mind inside out.

“You do realize, Jim, that you have been able to effectively engage in telepathic communication with me after Sybok’s intervention removed the shield you had spontaneously created?” Spock asked, his voice quiet.

»I— what?« Jim blinked and gaped, utterly dumbfounded. “What?”

Sybok nodded. “The moment I forced down your shield, your psionic center activated, without any artificial manipulation of your mesencephalon. I suspect that any stimulus may suffice as a trigger – if it is intense enough.”

“Huh.” Jim considered that. “Could be useful. Though if I need a really intense trigger to get there that would mean I’m in deep shit whenever I manage to uh… auto-stimulate my telepathy.”

“Maybe hypnosis might help?” Bones suggested. “Perhaps a post-hypnotic command? I don’t like the idea that Jim is not in complete control of his mind.” He scowled at Spock. Bones had never been a fan of Vulcan mind voodoo. The one thing Bones was still pissed off about what with the Bonding was Spock’s unconventional experiment with Jim’s brain.

“Yeah, well,” Jim said, “I don’t like it much, either. But it’s not as if any Human is ever in complete control over what goes on in their brain.”

“But ‘any Human’ don’t have your esper-ratings,” Bones retorted, as if his objections could change anything.

Spock ignored their squabbling and nodded thoughtfully. “That idea has merit, Doctor. If a means could be devised to allow Jim to fully control his latent telepathic abilities that would be most beneficial …”

“You don’t say,” Bones drawled.

Annoyed, Jim shook his head. “Yeah, we do say. But hold that thought. We need to talk about Thorby now. Without dragging other issues into the fray. We can discuss my beautiful mind later.”

Jim picked up his tea again, took a deep swallow and sighed. “Okay. First off, Sybok, thank you for all the work you’ve done with and for Thorby. We are indebted to you. Now, what can we do? How can we make sure that Thorby’s safety is guaranteed and that he can have the Bonds he needs for his mental health? How does that work in Vulcan society for an orphan?”

Spock’s expression betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “To be truthful, my knowledge of such proceedings is theoretical. I believe customarily an Elder would volunteer as Thorby’s guardian to form a familial Bond with him. It would then be the Elder’s responsibility to secure a compatible age mate for a betrothal Bond.”

Sybok nodded. “That is the way of our people. Or has been, on Vulcan-that-was. However, I have discussed the matter with T’Saralonde.” He paused, looking at Bones with a solemn expression, before he added, “And with T’Maire.” Facing Jim again, he continued, “Together, we have decided that we would like to offer Thorby a place in our family unit. If he is willing; if you are amenable with that solution; and if his and T’Maire’s minds are compatible.”

Jim stared at Spock’s brother, struck speechless by Sybok’s offer.

Thorby was a good kid. Brave and tough. But in Vulcan terms he was very much special needs. Jim couldn’t see any conservative Vulcan coping with Thorby’s resounding rejection of Surak’s teachings to start with. As a mind healer who embraced emotions, Sybok would be the best guardian imaginable for Thorby.

At the same time Jim was concerned about the repercussions of such an arrangement for Thorby and for Sybok’s family. Sybok was Ktorr Skann, an outcast. No matter how much New Vulcan needed Spice and Sybok’s expertise as a mind healer, Sybok’s position in Vulcan society might be difficult. Thorby would be an additional burden for Sybok and his family. Just as, vice versa, an association with Sybok and his family was unlikely to do Thorby any favors. Jim wasn’t so naïve as to believe that betrothal Bonds served only biological needs. There was a clear political and social component. However, Jim was not surprised that Sybok didn’t seem to give a damn about that. Jim could only hope that Sarek would be supportive. He’d definitely message old Spock and ask him for help …

But what about T’Maire? Jim adored the sweet, six-year-old girl who’d adopted him so cheerfully as her human uncle. He just couldn’t help it: He still struggled with the concept of Bonding children. To join the minds of two kids so they would be drawn together as adults in order to mate … that kind of thing went against so many core beliefs of his culture – against the human rights of personal and sexual freedom, against the ideal of self-actualization. Of course Jim knew that human standards did not apply. Neither Thorby nor T’Maire were human. And Jim himself was aware of what a Bond meant now, that blissful closeness of a compatible mind. So yeah, the idea was a lot less creepy now than it would have been just a few weeks ago. Plus, since the destruction of Vulcan, koon-ut-kal-if-fee no longer entailed a fight to the death. T’Maire would be able to choose another partner when the time came.

Finally, Jim thought of Jo, and the unlikely friendship Bones’s daughter had formed with the Vulcan orphan. His heart just broke for her. He feared that Thorby’s betrothal with T’Maire would mean the end of his friendship with Jo. Not just because both of them were so young and because so much time would pass until Jo could visit Thorby, either on New Vulcan or on Arrakis, but because Thorby’s mental and emotional capacity for relationships was much more limited than that of a human child his age. The space in his mind now occupied by his friendship with Jo would inevitably be filled by his connection with T’Maire upon their Bonding.

At the back of his mind, Jim felt a strange ache … melancholy … loneliness … Spock’s sorrow and sympathy for a little girl’s loss.

Jim met Bones’s eyes. His best friend frowned darkly, his lips pressed together into a bitter line. Bones hated hurting Jo, even if he was concerned about the dynamics of the kids’ friendship. But it was more than that. Bones was taking what had happened to Thorby really personal. Jim wondered why the boy got to Bones that way. There was a story there, and Jim was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it. Damn it all to hell! How he wished he could say something, do something, to make this easier for everyone involved. But he had to think of what was best for Thorby.

“We need to do what’s best for Thorby,” Bones said firmly, as if he had suddenly become telepathic, too. “Jo will be fine.”

Eventually, Jim thought sadly and knew that Spock agreed with that less than optimistic assessment of the situation. He turned to Spock’s brother. “Sybok, I don’t know what to say, except … Thank you. That you – and T’Sara and T’Maire – are willing to do that for Thorby … that means so much.” Jim took a deep breath. “Well. I guess that means we need to discuss the practical aspects of that solution. First of all, we need to talk to Thorby. Then, security. The information that Colonel Baslim put in Thorby’s mind must be removed without a trace before he can leave the Enterprise for good.” He scratched his head. “Also, can you please explain to me how that test of their mental compatibility works?”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.275, 2300 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Quarters

Spock watched Jim slip on his excuse of a pajama and slide into bed first. He had finally given up on trying to argue about sleeping next to the wall. Good. In turn, Spock had stopped attempting to lower the temperature in their quarters. As a result, it was too warm for Jim, and still not quite warm enough for Spock. Jim called that a “good compromise”; Spock failed to see the logic in a solution that ended with both of them less than comfortable. However, by now he also knew when it was futile to reason with Jim. In consequence, he silently put on his thermal sleepwear, long black pants with a long-sleeved top.

Then Spock arranged himself in front of Jim, until he could feel Jim’s body heat from his head to his toes. For the first time that day, he wasn’t cold. Jim was waiting for Spock’s touch, for the intimacy of the meld. But he was still thinking, processing the day. It showed on his face, so Spock didn’t move, just lay there, meeting his lover’s eyes, and waited, too. Waited for Jim to put into words what was weighing so heavy on his mind. Yes, they had grown accustomed to the Bond. But at the same time, they were both still learning the needs and limits of their minds and their bodies. And, Spock was warily willing to admit, their hearts. He was not, in fact, shocked that this process also entailed somewhat superfluous verbalizations of salient details. That was a well-documented human need, after all. Additionally, communication constituted a beneficial, logical means to arrive at a better understanding of events, situations, and beings. Of the universe and all the rest, he contemplated facetiously. What left Spock somewhat bemused was the irrational degree of satisfaction he derived from that tedious procedure.

The tension of the day and Jim’s inner turmoil vibrated within his mind. But Spock decided to hold off for a – a while longer. Jim needed to talk, even if he did not want to. Spock considered the imprecise nature of the term and found himself disturbingly unperturbed by the inherent vagueness of the word. A minute and twenty seconds later his patience was rewarded.

“So I finally get the reasons behind fraternization rules,” Jim muttered. “Well, I kind of did before. Just not really. That stuff today completely blindsided me. And it’s just not on that our issues interrupt ship’s business.” He sighed, then added with his usual painful honesty. “I guess I have to admit – and this is where you get to say ‘I told you so’ and raise an eyebrow at my naivety – it’s not as easy to remain professional as I thought it would be.”

Spock sensed that Jim wanted to add something but couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Gently he laid his hand against Jim’s face, not melding yet, but closing in, so he was able to pick up Jim’s surface thoughts.

“I need to tell you about Tarsus, I think,” Jim said abruptly. “I should have before.”

Echoes of old trauma filtered through the Bond, as carefully censured as Jim’s limited experience with regulating emotional transference allowed. Hollowness beyond hunger. Loss beyond grief. Broken boundaries of body, mind, and soul.

“That shit went down more than half my lifetime ago now, and it still fucks me up.” Jim shook his head. “He had a thing for smart boys, Kodos. That’s why I’m still here. They had estimates. All kinds of fancy projections. How many of us might make it under which circumstances. The best prediction was to take half the colonists out of the picture. He could have used a randomizer, I guess. But as I said, Kodos had a thing for smart people. So he used IQ tests to determine who got to live and who had to die. My mother didn’t quite make the cut. She didn’t even care, she was so relieved that my results were through the roof. If worst came to worst, at least I’d get to starve. Because that’s so much better than being shot.” He laughed mirthlessly.

Spock had seen the scene of Winona Kirk’s death during the Bonding meld. What a strange kinship of grief he shared with Jim, losing their mothers to the actions of madmen. But he said nothing and only focused on the Bond and its resilient connection, a vibrant source of hope in the dark places of his own mind.

“Anyway. Kodos. He handpicked kids who had been orphaned in the first wave of executions and had them taken to his residence. There were twenty of us in the beginning. He wanted to groom us for his … personal service.” Jim swallowed so hard he had to clear his throat with a painful cough. “I was the oldest. I had one of the highest IQ scores in the whole damn colony. I tried to take care of them, Spock. I tried so hard. But I failed.”

Through the Bond Spock heard with painful clarity a high, boyish voice, begging, pleading. Simultaneously, an auditory memory of his own was superimposed over that distant echo, and he heard the voice of his captain on the bridge of the Enterprise, uttering the very same words in the same tone of desperate, hopeless futility, as he begged Admiral Marcus: “Please, sir, let them live. I’ll do anything you want.”

“Jim, no matter how high your IQ score was, you were only thirteen. What you faced—” I don’t believe in no-win scenarios. “You did what you could.” Spock chose not to think of what that had entailed. “And—”

“And that explains a lot?” Jim closed his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it does. At least why I spent years fooling around with weird alien drugs until my eyes changed color.”

Spock understood the logic of that particular emotional process, especially taking into account Jim’s domestic situation after Tarsus. His older brother had not accompanied Jim and his mother to the colony because Sam had already been enrolled at Starfleet preparatory. He had never returned to Iowa. Jim’s stepfather had succumbed to depression and alcoholism. Attempts by teachers and local authorities to provide support had been limited and easily thwarted by Jim himself.

Spock was familiar with those facts. He had read Jim’s files. But more than that, in their Bond and many melds he had joined Jim’s life, from the morning a half-starved boy had knelt naked in front of Kodos to the night a genius-level repeat offender with Spice-blue eyes had faced a Starfleet captain in a seedy bar near the shipyards of Riverside. Now their shared memories triggered an acute emotional response that Spock could not suppress completely. More than sympathy. Pain.

“What I meant to say,” Spock explained softly, “is that I understand why Thorby’s fate affects you the way it does.”

Jim drew a shuddering breath. “Same here, with you.”

Spock stilled, slowing down even his heartbeat in a minute’s drawn out introspection. He was entirely cognizant of how developmental problems – such as lack of mental control and inappropriate aggressive behaviour – and social isolation had impacted his identity formation. However …

“The similarities of our socialization are limited,” Spock protested at last. “My development occured in a stable environment.” He attempted to rephrase statement in a more colloquial manner. “I could always go home.”

“Yeah, sure. When those project supervisors over at the VSA and your fellow students were fucking done with you. Then you could drag home what was left of you. To that awesome stable environment in which you never told anyone what was going on. Right.” Jim snorted. “Spock, I hate to inform you, but the Bond really works both ways. And I’m pretty sure that my driving the car off that cliff when I was twelve was a hell of a lot healthier than what you did with your kahs-wan.”

Spock did not know how to respond to that statement. Accordingly, he remained silent. Two minutes and twelve seconds later, Jim pressed even closer, until their bodies were touching intimately. He captured Spock’s hand and pressed it against the side of his face. “Meld us,” he requested, his need sharp ache deep within Spock’s mind, “please. Need you. Need … us. ‘kay?”

Wordlessly, Spock slid his fingers to the by now familiar qui’lari of his Bondmate. He no longer needed the traditional mnemonic chants. Their connection formed almost instinctively now. After their Bond matured during pon farr, not even taroon-ifla might be necessary anymore for their minds to join as one.

Warmth. More than anything else Spock associated warmth with their sharing of minds. As if only in his union with Jim, he could ever be less than cold. In this warmth, the disjointed elements that made up Spock aligned in harmony. Within Jim, Spock was real – his own person instead of an imperfect experiment, the fractured product of skillful genetic hybridization. In their joined consciousness, the scars of their childhood had no power over them. Here, painful secrets shared between them did not form fissures of agony. Instead, light seeped through those cracks and only illuminated the Bond they shared.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.275, 2400 hours, Deck 4, CMO’s Quarters

Thorby lay in his bed, with Jo wrapped around him like a baby sehlat clinging to the warmth of its mother in a cold desert night.

They had spoken of what was most likely to happen – that the adults would decide that Thorby should go to New Vulcan with Sybok. It was the logical solution. Thorby had finally discharged his duties to the Federation thanks to the mind healer’s intervention. As an orphan without House or clan or family, he should now be taken to New Vulcan to be made a ward of the High Council, to have an Elder assigned as his klashausu. Thorby had told Jo as much. That it was logical. That it was proper.

Jo had thrown her arms around him and cried until the front of his pajama top was damp, until he was queasy with the intensity of their shared emotions, only a few of which he was able to recognize and control. Now they cuddled in the darkness of his bunk in silence.

Yet in spite of her human emotions, Jo hadn’t disputed the logic of what was bound to happen. And because that wish was so shockingly irrational for a Vulcan, Thorby had not mentioned how much he craved the ability to cry with her.

♦♦♦

“Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”
– Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game

♦♦♦♦♦♦

---

 

Author’s Notes

• The Enterprise drinking song is “Star Trekkin’”, a musical parody of TOS written by John O’Connor, Grahame Lister, and Rory Kehoe, released 1987 by The Firm.

• “Var t’Yelar” as a seminal piece of Vulcan-Terran music is my invention.

• “Shadows in the Garden” is a semi-canon Vulcan poem from the TNG comic of the same title. The concept of a Vulcan rock garden is mine.

• All bits of Vulcan language in this chapter are from the VLD (http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/) with a little help from the Vulcan Language Institute Reclamation Project. I’m not really trying to get the grammar straight, though.

• Last but not least: The opinions of the characters and their understanding of themselves and each other do not necessarily match the author’s. In other words, what characters think, feel, and say is not always correct.