RoH 7

A New, More Fractured Light

Stardate 2260.164, 2100 hours, Guildhall, Pyrithia

The first course was plomeek soup.

Spock considered what that gesture, the offering of a Vulcan staple, was supposed to mean. The soup was not replicated; one look and one inhalation told him that. The ingredients currently cost a fortune. Was it intended as a compliment, a sign of respect and generosity? Or was the motivation behind the menu less benign? Taking into account the stares leveled at him by the Xinti and Kovaalan guild masters, cunning and cold, he deducted that in this case a bowl of soup constituted a veiled threat instead of hearty nourishment – a pointed reminder of how powerless the Federation had been to protect one of its founding members.

Next to him, Jim must have arrived at the same conclusion. He’d been tense from the start, barely able to hide his intense dislike of such diplomatic functions behind stiff Starfleet formality. Now he focused on the soup with a stony stare, abandoning all pretense at polite dinner conversation. A moment later he started eating without a word – and without scanning the concoction first for poisons or allergens. He ate slowly, the way he always did. Now and again he paused, savoring the taste with an expression of reverence.

Only when his bowl was empty, he turned to Spock. His hazel gaze was intense, searing. But when he spoke, his voice was soft, his Vulcan accent perfect. “Nam-tor shur temep-sharu na’tri-sochya.”

Spock felt his heart thud heavily against his ribs. How often had his mother comforted him in her emotional, human way with that proverb and a bowl of plomeek soup as a child?

“Soup is the gateway to inner peace.”

He picked up the spoon.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.166, 1100 hours, Grand Bazaar, Pyrithia

Gaila scrutinized the partners for her away mission. Meeting them in person, her impression was even less favorable in person than the one she had gleaned from their public profiles. Their files were just a little too clean, a bit too ordinary. Something was off about them, about both of them. So much so that she had tried to get into their actual personnel files. Without success – the level of encryption was not of this galaxy. Gaila didn’t like files she couldn’t hack into. To have people with files like that on her team made her uneasy.

Carolyn Paul was a human woman, supposedly a school teacher for extracurricular projects, but listed as a lieutenant with the Sciences Division, Diplomacy & Xenopolitics Department. Ensign Gwaloth Canningham was a tailor in fabrics and textiles replications, working as a Quartermaster. She was also a delicate looking alien. Gaila didn’t recognize the species. Why was there no security officer on the team?

Of course Gaila knew that Commander Paul, the head of the Xenopolitics Department, had put together away teams that would be most effective for secret reconnaissance at Captain Kirk’s orders, even if that meant splitting up experienced teams. She knew those orders. She even understood Captain Kirk’s and Commander Paul’s reasoning. Three women out shopping was about as low profile as you could make an away team. It was a clever disguise, but Gaila didn’t have to like it. In this case, she didn’t like to go on an away mission with what amounted to a civilian in charge to start with. But what she liked least of all about their orders for this particular away mission was that they were not allowed to wear their uniforms. She was now dressed in a glittery Orion tunic with enticing cut-outs. While that costume was not the worst slave-wear traditional among her people, it was close. Too close for her comfort. Additionally, the Denobulans enforced a strict no weapons policy on Pyrithia, so she’d also have to do without the sense of security provided by a phaser set to stun. No, she wasn’t happy about this away mission. Not at all.

Gaila turned to Paul – who was dressed in tight red leather pants and the skimpy kind of tunic that only whores or cheap bodyguards wore on certain planets – and frowned. “You’re not pretty.”

For a moment, the woman stared at her, taken aback. Then she nodded. “Yes. I have big boobs and I’m fat.” She shrugged. “You’re green and on hormone suppressants. What’s your point?”

Gaila shook her head. “It’s not your weight or the form of your breasts I object to. That’s fine. You’re solid and soft in just the right way. I could go crazy for that. It’s your eyes I object to. They are too cold.”

“Great,” Paul said. “Now we’ve cleared that up, can we go?”

“That would be lovely,” Gwaloth put in and twirled in her gossamer robe. The fabric was green as moss, soft as powder. Vulcan yelas weave, an incredibly precious fabric now. Around her neck and her hips she wore heavy jewelry, precious metals and gems in hues of green that looked too antique to be replicated. She looked too rich by far to be a crew member of a Starfleet ship. “The Pyrithian fabrics bazaar is about to open. I need to procure certain materials for the textiles and fabrics department that are not available on Earth.”

Gaila sighed. Orders were orders. Shopping at the bazaar to collect information might even be fun. Still, she couldn’t wait to be back on board, putting on her uniform, leaving the past buried in the past.

“Once we’re down there,” Paul told her, “let Gwaloth do the talking. She knows what she’s doing. Keep your eyes and ears open and don’t get lost. Oh, and carry her fan.” She thrust a ridiculous feathery something at Gaila.

A heartbeat later, the bazaar, light-years away from Orion, assaulted Gaila’s senses and transported her back to a place and a time she never wanted to live through again.

All those colors. Too many colors. Normal spectral colors in varying degrees of intensity, from colorful Tiburonian brocades to crazy Vissian polyester. Blinding fluorescents and mesmerizing alien hues. Shades she couldn’t even make out, but which made her eyes sting and burn. And the smells. The stink of raw, untreated yarns, the musky smell of Chameloid furs, the acrid tang of freshly died Capellan cloth, the musty scent of second-hand clothing, and the leathery whiff of shoes. The crowds. Customers and merchants milling about, pets under tables, and babies sleeping at the back of stalls. Too much noise. Haggling and shouting in a dozen and more tongues, from Andorian to Xindi.

Gaila nearly reeled, disoriented with the onslaught on her senses. But Canningham pushed right into the fray, drawing them into a labyrinth of fabrics and textiles. The ensign led them past mountains of Algolian velvet, rolls of Aaamazzarite shrouds, clouds of Xindi chiffon, layers of Ullian linen, around cyan pools of Arrakeen silk, and past piles of accouterments from Idanian scarves to Rigelian necklaces. Obviously, she really knew where she was going. At some point more or less in the middle of the market she slowed down. For some time, she meandered leisurely from stall to stall, until they came to a kiosk where a fat Ferengi squatted in pride of place, acquisitive and robust and eager for business.

“Master Kork!” Canningham exclaimed, rushing towards the stocky merchant. “How good to see you again after all this time.”

To Gaila’s surprise, the Ferengi dropped a kiss on each of her hands before drawing her into a tight embrace. “Gwaloth, dearest. My favorite customer from Kohlan to Khosla. It has been much too long. At least four years. I hope they were gainful. ”

Canningham smiled. “Very rewarding indeed, Master Kork, thank you. And how is your business? I expect your acquisitions are as lucrative as always.”

The Ferengi smirked. “You know, my dear: War is good for business, peace is good for business. Business is business. So what can I do for you today?”

“I’m looking for desert fabrics and yarns,” Quartermaster Canningham announced, smoothing down her green gown to indicate what she was looking for. “The kind that used to come from Vulcan.”

Unobtrusively, Carolyn Paul drifted to her right. To all intents and purposes, the lieutenant was interested in nothing but the next stall’s merchandise, Andorian fabrics in various hues of blue. But Gaila noticed how closely Paul was watching every person around her, how attentively she was listening to conversations around her.

The Ferengi gave Gwaloth Canningham a shrewd look. “Wonderful fabrics,” he agreed. “All natural. So smooth. So soft. Never wrinkle, never stain.” Another look. “Unfortunately, there’s been a problem with production and delivery lately.”

“You don’t say?” Ensign Canningham smirked at the man. Then she turned to Gaila, hand extended. After a stunned second, Gaila remembered the fan and placed it in her hand. The alien fluttered the foppish creation delicately at her face. “However, there are traders who … specialize in similar ware, who have similar expertise. I know if there’s one person on Pyrithia who can get me what I want, it’s you.”

“The V’tosh ka’tur,” the merchant said. “That’s who you want.”

“Indeed.” Canningham caressed her belt purse in a sinuous way. “And I can make it worth your while, Master Kork.”

“Profit is its own reward,” the Ferengi deflected demurely. But his large eyes glittered with greed. Then he sighed dramatically, dejected. “But I am desolate: I cannot help you, madam. There are none here, haven’t been for months.”

“Oh well.” The Quartermaster shrugged and produced a small PADD. “That is unfortunate. However, I do have need of certain other supplies …”

Gaila used the opportunity of the subsequent haggling to stray around the kiosk and check out the other stalls for whatever gossip she could pick up. On the far side of Kork’s place, she thought she saw a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye. Someone dark and tall. Someone she hadn’t seen in so long she couldn’t place him anymore. Uneasiness prickled down her spine. Fear. She retraced her steps a little too quickly and hoped that no one had noticed. Paul looked at her questioningly, but she just shook her head. It was probably nothing. Old memories coming back to haunt her at an inopportune moment. When she reached Canningham’s side again, whatever deals the Quartermaster had been after were dealt and done with. Gwaloth Canningham and the Ferengi merchant were sharing small cups of a hot beverage that smelled like hot mushrooms with chocolate. “So you say I might have more luck at Khosla?”

The Ferengi nodded. “They don’t like the Xindi and the Kovaalan, those gypsies. There’s bad blood there – Vulcanoids of any sort don’t like to get press-ganged into military service.”

“Ah yes, well. Who does?” Canningham asked, raising her tiny cup in an elegant gesture.

“If the price is right …” The Ferengi shrugged.

“Of course.” Gwaloth Canningham leaned in a little, exposing her breasts enough that the Ferengi sucked in his breath appreciatively. “Talking about Vulcanoids and price … I’m not just interested in fabrics, you know. It’s all so precious now, Vulcan cloth, Vulcan craftsmanship. There’s profit there, Master Kork. You of all people know that.”

Kork groaned, an awful sound of greed and … more. Gaila’s stomach lurched. But the ensign remained unfazed. Demonstratively, Canningham laid a hand around Gaila’s neck, the way you’d touch a lap dog or a kitten, and drew her flush against her side, an owner’s possessive gesture. With a flirtatious swirl of her fan, the woman slid another inch closer to Kork. “How about cheap labor, Master Kork? Should your recommendations pay off, and I acquire access to a regular supply of Vulcan fabrics, I’ll also need Vulcan laborers to turn those fabrics into pieces of art. You wouldn’t know anything about … that kind of trade, would you?”

“Ferengi don’t engage in that sort of commerce,” Kork said, drawing his warped morality around him like a mantle. “When Vulcans were still slaughtering each other, Ferengi were already peaceful capitalists. With a stock market exchange of unrivaled opportunities.”

Canningham rolled her eyes. “Do I look like an Orion? I’m an honorable businesswoman trying to establish myself in a niche market. But a prerequisite for profit is expertise. And it would be an act of kindness. They’d go from being,” she fluttered her hand meaningfully, “to being gainfully employed laborers. With benefits, of course. Though I’m not sure how I feel about paid vacation.”

“Oh, you,” the Ferengi cackled, “you’re worse than my grandson. Sit with me.”

Canningham melted into the merchant’s side. Gracefully, familiarly. And she shoved Gaila onto her knees with a strength that belied her appearance as a frail, female figure. Gaila had about reached the end of her endurance now. But Paul stood at attention three feet away. The lieutenant was so tense that Gaila couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more at stake here than simple reconnaissance. Then Gaila felt again that prickle of watchful eyes on the back of her neck. She couldn’t get the idea out of her head that if she turned her head, she’d see someone lurking there … someone she recognized, someone she didn’t want to see – ever again.

“That trade,” Kork was saying to Canningham now, “it is not plied here. You need to go to New Sydney for that. If you use your green pet as a ticket, the people you want to talk to should be willing to meet you. And that advice is free, by the way, given to you out of the endless generosity of my gentle heart.”

“Of course, Master.” Canningham exchanged revolting smooches with the Ferengi and pressed an additional bunch of credits into his lap.

Then the three of them moved on at last. Slowly, they made their way across the market. The Quartermaster studied the wares of all the stalls with an expert eye. She chatted at least with every other seller, sometimes striking a small bargain on the side, slipping a package of Bandi nets in her bag here, some Lytasian lace or Skorrian feathers there. They hadn’t come far when Gaila was certain that they were being followed. A glance to her left told her that Paul had noticed it, too.

“Fuck.” Carolyn Paul sighed. “Someone’s interested in us. Gwaloth?”

The alien indicated a shake of her head. “No one I know.”

“Gaila?”

“I’m not sure,” she said softly, affecting a submissive posture at Ensign Canningham’s side once more. “I … at the kiosk, I thought someone was watching me. Someone who … who knew me. Before. If that is the case, this will go badly if we can’t beam out of here ASAP.”

Carolyn Paul’s sharp gaze told her that she knew exactly what Gaila was talking about. Gaila might not have been able to get into Paul’s files. But Paul had obviously accessed hers. Not many officers on the ship had the clearance to view that part of her files. Why had Commander Paul shared that kind of information with the lieutenant before this mission?

“Damn. If we beam straight back, Gwaloth’s cover will be compromised. No can do,” Paul muttered. “Rats. I seriously lack superhero skills at self-defense. How about you?”

Gaila shook her head. “Just basics. I can dance someone to death, but I’m no good at beating them up. And the hormone suppressants make me slow.”

“Okay, this officially sucks,” Paul said. “Especially since your friend brought help. We need to get out of sight or we are screwed. Gwaloth can’t shift in the middle of the market.”

A few steps at a time, they strolled down the row and then drifted away from the market, pretending to chat, even affecting giggles, appearing to skip around a corner to disappear into the next lane … fully aware that they were being followed, not just by one thug, but six – seven.

“Gwaloth – ready to go all salt vampire on those guys? That M-113 creature we looked at before?”

“Ewww.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. But somehow I don’t think those gentlemen want to invite us to share a Cardassian Sunrise in that cozy pub around the corner.” Paul pulled out her comm unit, tapping the button to request emergency retrieval. Then she turned around to face their pursuers. “We only need to stay alive until they can lock on us to beam us up. Think we can manage that?”

Gaila didn’t reply. She kicked the first goon in the groin with the power and elegance that was the result of many years of dancing. Moaning, he went down on his knees, cradling his bits. Paul rammed her head into an attacker’s chest. Then she jerked upwards, nearly dislocating the man’s jaw. That must have hurt her about as much as the guy. Somewhat unsteady on her feet, she whirled around to punch the next assailant right in the eye, index and middle finger pointed straight ahead.

Behind them Canningham’s delicate female body writhed and contorted helplessly. Her precious dress split at the seams. Serpentine scales undulated under the fabric, as her humanoid appearance melted into a compact, slug-like shape.

Carolyn Paul and Gaila put up a good fight. But there were too many opponents, and they were too strong – professional brawlers at the very least. It didn’t take long until one attacker grabbed Gaila from behind, holding her firmly in place, while another did his best to beat her unconscious, quickly, methodically. Paul wasn’t faring any better. Now it was just a matter of seconds until it was all over …

Suddenly a huge, hairy creature tore the man away who’d been holding her captive. Gaila got a glimpse of sagging folds, yellow eyes, and an inverted snout. With a roar, the beast bared several sharp, ivory fangs. The last thing Gaila saw before the white swirls of a Transporter beam obscured her vision was the creature grasping the face of one of their attackers with three sucker-like fingers.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.166, 1300 hours, Deck 8, Transporter Room

Somehow Carolyn managed to lurch down from the transporter pad. In that weird haze that precedes a faint she recognized the waiting medic. The CMO in person – Jo’s dad.

Now that wasn’t how she’d wanted to meet that man. She’d hoped he would show up for her office hours one day so she could tell him how well his daughter was doing, how the girl was flourishing on board of the Enterprise. Or perhaps at the upcoming parent-teacher conference, where she intended to show off some of the creative projects Jo’s class was working on at the moment. Damn.

Her knees buckled. As if in slow motion, the floor was sliding up to her. She collapsed at his feet. There was time to think that his shoes were very very shiny. Then sick hallucinations of mounds of fabric turning into quicksand swallowed her whole.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.167, 1700 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

When Carolyn woke, she found herself nose to nose with a furious Doctor McCoy. He had very beautiful dark green eyes.

“You were supposed to go shopping down there. Play with pretty clothes and shiny fabric, not get yourselves beaten up within an inch of your lives!” he snarled.

She blinked. Her body … so heavy. She couldn’t move at all. And she was so warm. Inside out. Outside in. As if she were floating in a tub full of liquid, warm chocolate. Gooey. Good. He really had the prettiest eyes.

“Damn, girl! Do you realize that the only reason you’re not dead is because those goons didn’t actually mean to kill you?”

“Lieutenant Paul,” she managed. She may be twenty-three years old, but she wasn’t a girl; hadn’t been one for a long time. And she’d bet her life – and Gaila’s and Gwaloth’s – on the idea that those thugs hadn’t wanted to kill them then and there. She was kind of glad that had worked out.

“Right. Then let’s start at the top, Lieutenant Paul. A concussion. Broken nose. Fractured cheekbone. Chipped teeth. All mended now, and your teeth are way prettier than before. Moving lower: a nearly dislocated shoulder, a cracked rib, bruised kidneys thanks to blunt trauma on the right side. The bone’s fixed, but you’ll be sore as hell for a couple of days. Oh, and of course, sprained fingers, with four nails torn straight off. Manicure will be a bitch for the next twelve weeks or so, I can promise you that. The regeneration of nails is hell on the nervous system. Not to mention assorted hematoma and lacerations. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was hoping that Wraiths could shapeshift a bit faster.”

“Well, don’t do that next time!”

Such beautiful eyes. Stubborn chin, too. She also kind of liked his hair, all ruffled and dark and soft. Noticing a man that way wasn’t like her. Especially not a man she didn’t even know. Most especially not a father of one of her students. That was … that was … unpo— unprofessional. And she felt so drowsy and warm and melty … Whoa, she must have been in a bad way indeed if they’d had to drug her up to her gills like that. “Sorry, Doc. I’ll try.”

“That’s what they all say,” he told her, disgusted. “And then they clutter up my sickbay all over again.”

“How are Gaila and Gwaloth?”

“Alive.”

Her expression must have given away how that one word felt like another punch into the stomach. The doctor’s frown softened. “Gaila was not quite as banged up as you – she’s a twisty little thing with all of that dancing she’s been doing. Gwaloth’s just fine; she only needs to watch her salt intake for a while. Apparently there are some shapes that are harder on a Wraith’s constitution than others. So no more turning salt vampire for her in the near future. And now,” McCoy raised a stern finger, “you go back to sleep. You’ve got some healing to do yet before I’ll let you out of here.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.170, 2000 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Office

The captain was not pleased. The forbidding expression of the first officer at his side was not precisely encouraging, either. Not even taking into account that he was Vulcan and was therefore supposed to look unemotional and cold.

Carolyn swallowed dryly and stood at attention just inside the captain’s office, ignoring the pangs of her barely healed injuries. No surprise there. Of course Kirk was angry after how that away mission had gone down. And she’d get chewed out by her dad later on in private, on top of this pleasant conversation. Awesome.

“What the hell happened down there, Lieutenant?” Captain Kirk growled from behind his desk.

She tried to focus on the wall above the captain’s left shoulder instead of his blazing hazel-green eyes. “I led an away team down to the grand bazaar of Pyrithia, the fabrics and textiles market. Quartermaster Canningham has a contact there, a Ferengi informant, Master Kork. Posing as an independent entrepreneur of considerable means, Quartermaster Canningham approached Master Kork in the company of Lieutenant Gaila, who was disguised as an Orion slave girl, and myself dressed in the livery of a common bodyguard. Canningham was able to gain some salient details pertaining to the V’tosh ka’tur and the—” She couldn’t face the first officer and dropped her gaze to the ground, concentrating on the tips of her shoes. “The slave traders specializing in Vulcans these days.”

“Great.” The captain didn’t sound thrilled. “What went wrong?”

“Unfortunately, Lieutenant Gaila was recognized by an Orion trader. He decided to get back his lost possession, with … interest. We couldn’t risk beaming up straight from the market, or Canningham shapeshifting then and there. That would have compromised her cover. We had to get out of sight.” She hesitated. Then she drew a deep breath and looked up, meeting the captain’s furious gaze. “Lieutenant Gaila and I have only basic hand-to-hand training, sir. There were seven of them. And it took a little longer than I hoped for Canningham to shift into a salt vampire.”

“So far, so good. Shit happens,” Kirk said, his voice dangerously soft. “What I don’t get is how a school teacher and a tailor got the idea for an undercover adventure into their heads in the first place. And why you have a Ferengi informant on an unaligned planet outside of Federation space. Or why you believed you didn’t need a security team as back-up. Also, while the execution of away missions is generally at the discretion of the officer in charge, that rule in the handbook refers to standard missions. Not to clandestine shit like this one! You’re a lieutenant with Sciences Division. You should be aware of the fact that in a case like this one not just the relevant superior officer must be informed, but the commanding officer. Me. And there’s a good reason for that, too. Because with this kind of mission? If it goes pear-shaped, it may well affect the safety of the entire ship!”

He sucked in a deep breath with an irritated hiss. “And last but not least, let’s not forget the officer in charge of this mission. She’s listed in the database as teacher for extracurricular activities. Like creative writing workshops and stuff like that. Her qualifications in xenopolitics and diplomacy show up only in small print. And her file is interesting mostly because of all the things that are very obviously not in it. Anything you want to explain about that, Lieutenant?”

Carolyn bit down on her lower lip. Hard. The easy way out would be to fall back on her orders. Let her father field the fallout. That was his job, after all. But taking into account the Marcus conspiracy, she suspected that would just make things worse. She couldn’t ignore how the situation must appear to Kirk of all people. Her file locked up so tightly that not even Gaila had been able to hack into it. Her father sending her on an undercover mission that simply screamed Section 31. She could only hope that the information they had gathered was worth this shit storm – and blowing her cover now. “What do you want to know, Captain?”

“Everything.”

“This … this will be a lot easier if I unlock my file for you, Captain.”

Without a word, he turned the screen on his desk and shoved the keyboard at her. Her file was already on display. With a deep breath, she called up the login page and entered her password. Then she turned the screen back to the captain and the first officer.

She tried not to think of the contents of her file. Of the pictures she knew were in there. Tried very, very hard. Didn’t succeed. She went back to staring at the wall.

“Well, hell,” the captain said at last and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It seems you’re very lucky to be with us at all, Lieutenant. But considering your complete file, I can only wonder once more: What the hell were you thinking, pulling a crazy stunt like that down there, three young women without any security?”

“If Kork had gotten a whiff of Starfleet, he wouldn’t have talked to Canningham. It was a necessary risk.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “And if we get those bastards,” she whispered, “a few broken bones are a small price to pay.”

“You are emotionally compromised by the mission at hand, Lieutenant,” the first officer said, his voice strangely gentle. “And Captain Kirk is right. You shouldn’t have left the ship. In fact, you shouldn’t be on the ship in the first place.”

“You don’t say,” she muttered, before she could stop herself. Remembering who she was talking to, she straightened, standing at attention once more, various aches and pains notwithstanding. “Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. I know that I’m the only one still alive who can recognize and identify Councilor Gav and his collaborators. The one witness who can link slave trade in Federation space with the Tellarite councilor and the Federation Council itself. But I can testify only if this investigation is successful. If we secure sufficient evidence to satisfy the Federation Supreme Court. If we figure out exactly how they operate and who is involved. Where the money comes from, where the money ends up. Sir.”

The captain was still scrolling down through her file, stone-faced. “She is safer here than on Earth, Spock, or anywhere else in the Federation for that matter,” he said with a nod at the screen. Then he looked back at her, shaking his head. “Minus shit like such undercover missions, of course.”

“We … I didn’t expect any problems. It was supposed to be safe – meeting Gwaloth’s – Ensign Canningham’s acquaintance. Merely a matter of blending in and getting facts, sir.” She took a deep breath and straightened up once more. “That is my job, sir. I may suck at fighting, but I’m actually trained to do what I did down there. Go in and get info and come back alive. Sir.”

The captain nodded. “I get that, Lieutenant Paul. But you’re no good as a witness if you’re dead. So none of that, from now on. Even if you’re Section 31. While you’re on this ship, you’re my responsibility. I’m in charge here, not Section 31. And I’m damn sick of this secret shit. You may go, Lieutenant.”

He leaned over and pressed a button on his comm unit. “Rand, get Commander Paul into my office. Now.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.170, 2200 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Cabin

“Remind me never to say anything about how easy a layover is going to be in advance,” Jim ordered. “Ever again.”

What with Lieutenant Paul’s debriefing and the following discussion with her father, Jim was too wound up with anger and adrenaline to contemplate sleep. He was prowling his cabin and office like a panther his cage. Spock, obviously determined to stay until he’d gotten it out of his system, had stationed himself next to the connecting door. He was standing a step out of the way, hands clasped at his back. Attentive. A certain tension around his eyes betrayed that he was not happy with how the day had gone, either.

“The probability that an incident would come to pass was comparatively low based on the information at our disposal when we entered orbit,” Spock said mildly. “I initially estimated the risk of a significant crisis would not exceed a statistical likelihood of 34.5% – or I would have made my concerns known.”

“You’d have warned me. I know. And you’re pissed that information was kept from us,” Jim translated. “Me, too.”

Another trip around the desk. The problem right now was that he had time. Time to be angry. Time to think, and time to worry. They’d reach New Sydney in seven days, round about noon on stardate 2260.175. An acute crisis would have been easier on him. It would have forced him to keep his act together, to keep going, no matter what. This, however? Sticking to normal shipboard routine, having to make sensible plans after the kind of revelations dumped on him today was much harder.

He went over to his living area and slumped into an armchair. “Sit with me, Spock.”

Without a word, Spock moved to the other chair and settled gracefully into the ovoid shell of the lounger.

Jim tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I don’t even know what I hate most about all of this.”

“Creating a list of irritants according to decreasing intensity isn’t a necessary prerequisite for a comprehensive analysis of a complex situation.”

Jim huffed, amused. “Top ten lists of stuff I hate about any given situation help me think.”

He didn’t even have to look at Spock to know that his reaction was a delicately raised left eyebrow. Warm affection flooded him, and his mind cleared a little as his anger simmered down. “Okay, I’ll give it a stab. Section 31—” He stopped abruptly. “No, actually. Not Section 31. Those damn bastards.” He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “Slave trade in the Federation, and a member of the Federation Council involved. And a kid ends up …”

Lieutenant Paul had probably broken a dozen regulations or so when she’d unlocked her file for him. He wasn’t sure exactly how many. Spock would know. Jim appreciated the gesture of trust. So far he’d taken file-locking as a convenient means to protect his own privacy and an insult to his curiosity where other files were concerned. Now he was willing to accept that in some cases personnel files better stayed locked up, good and tight.

After university, Paul had worked as an intern with PATS – Planets Against Trafficking of Sentients. That’s how it all had started. A smartass kid with ideals. She’d picked up on some leads, put things together with that outrageous intuition most people lose with experience. When she’d gone on to work for the Federation Council as a junior aid with the Diplomatic Corps, she’d kept working on her pet project on the side. And then she’d hit dirt. Oh boy, had she ever.

Ambassador Gav liked his playthings young and submissive. That such a girl might be more than she seemed had occurred to him much too late. It was extremely unfortunate that it had occurred to him at all. Only the greed of Gav’s collaborators had saved Paul’s life then. Instead of killing her, they’d sold her. And no matter how much Jim objected to Section 31, those guys protected their own. They’d tracked Paul down and retrieved her. Jim shook his head. She must have been just down the floor from him at Starfleet Medical.

“… Jesus.”

It was telling that Spock didn’t comment on this illogical and very human epithet. The whole thing bothered him, too. No wonder, with the current “high risk” rating from PATS for Vulcans.

“Thing is, while I get that it was mostly bad luck how Pyrithia went wrong on her, the whole thing’s now my responsibility.” Spock opened his mouth, probably to remind him of the nuances of the chain of command regarding his position as the captain of the Enterprise and Commander Paul’s as the officer in charge of the relevant Section 31 investigation. “Spock, it is. My ship. My people. And she trusted me with all that shit. She didn’t have to. Plus, emotional compromise – I need to stop seeing fathers look absolutely gutted over the stunts their kids pull on this ship.”

“Under ordinary circumstances I doubt that Commander Paul would have been given the responsibility for this particular operation,” Spock commented.

“Bloody Marcus,” Jim muttered. In the wake of the Marcus conspiracy, Section 31 had become the object of intense scrutiny. Taking into account Ambassador Gav’s connections that didn’t bode well for Lieutenant Paul’s safety. “I certainly don’t blame Commander Paul for fighting tooth and nail to stay head of that investigation and then getting his kid the hell away from Earth, emotional compromise be damned.”

Jim rubbed both hands over his face. “One thing is sure: she’s not going on any more undercover missions.”

“I do believe that contrary to his assertions, her father appreciates your insistence in this matter.” Spock rose to his feet and went over to the replicator. “Would you like something, too?”

“You getting one of those tea things?”

Spock nodded.

“Yes, please. Not the spicy one, though – makes me break out in hives, and we’re not done here yet. No time for lolling around sickbay.”

“I wouldn’t expose you to any allergens knowingly, Captain.” That tiny, indignant flare of his nostrils was kind of adorable.

“Jim,” he reminded. “We’re off duty.”

“But we are discussing ship’s business.”

Jim rolled his eyes. Five minutes later he curled his fingers around a hot mug of peppermint tea and inhaled appreciatively. “So, New Sydney. I have a really bad feeling about that place. And that’s without Lieutenant Paul’s pet Ferengi telling us that’s the place to buy Vulcan slaves in this sector. I mean, it’s already listed in the official Starfleet handbook as a stronghold of the Orion Syndicate. Now Commander Paul says the local agent hasn’t checked in for a while. With field agents that may not be unusual, but it’s not exactly what makes me get the warm and fuzzies.”

“Master Kork seemed to think that cultivating the appearance of a competitor in the trade would ensure access to the target subjects.” Spock took a delicate sip from his Vulcan spice tea.

“Yeah, I know. But you’ve seen Gaila. I don’t think she can pull that off. We’re not letting Paul down there. And Canningham may be able to shapeshift into anything from a rock to an Orion dancer, but she’s no actor. She doesn’t have the slang. So I don’t really see an option for another undercover mission …”

“Taking into account the current PATS risk assessment for my species, it would be logical for me to pose as decoy,” Spock suggested evenly. “Perhaps my presence would also provide enough reassurance for Lieutenant Gaila to—”

Jim put down his mug with clank. “No.”

“Considering the circumstances, it is a logical—”

“No.”

“Captain, your reaction is irrational. You cannot allow emotions to interfere with a mission that may be vital for the success of such a crucial investigation,” Spock objected. His expression was devoid of any hint of warmth now, his eyes filled with cold determination.

“No,” Jim repeated a third time, jumping to his feet. Spock rose from his seat, too. They stood just a foot apart, and Jim … Nausea and vertigo tore at his self-control. Lessons in emotional compromise sucked big time. He knew very well that one day soon he’d have to send Spock into mortal danger. So that’s how it would feel when it came to that. Like a black hole opening right at his feet. He didn’t like the feeling. At all. “Sorry, Spock. But no.”

Instinctively, he moved yet another step closer. He took in Spock’s face, the determined set of his jaws, the shadows of stubble at the end of a long day, the annoyed flare of his nostrils, the hint of anger lurking in those dark, dark eyes, the tension drawing up sharply slanted eyebrows. Jim inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to focus on those lips, so kissably close.

“We both know that I am emotionally compromised where you are concerned,” he said softly. “But you should also know that I can still do my job. I’ll always want to say no when I’m about to send you into danger. But I won’t. And that’s not why I’m saying no now.”

“Explain.”

“Canningham pretended she was looking for cheap Vulcan labor with the Ferengi because that works with a Ferengi. They don’t like slave trade, those guys. But they are all about profit. New Sydney …” Jim grimaced. “New Sydney isn’t about that kind of slave, Spock. They don’t allow slaves near any type of heavy machinery and nowhere close to their precious pergium. That’s why Kork told her to use Gaila. It’s …” He swallowed past the sick feeling constricting his gullet. “… New Sydney is where you buy sex slaves.”

Spock stared at him, uncomprehending. “How would that impact my mission?”

If Jim had allowed himself to imagine a conversation about sex with Spock, one thing was sure: this was not how he’d dreamed it up. “Spock … Please forgive me. But there is no way I can make my point without making propriety run away screaming.”

Spock raised both eyebrows at that wonky metaphor. But obstinate Vulcan that he was, he wouldn’t back down without a satisfactory explanation.

“How much experience do you have?” Jim asked, as bluntly as he could. “Sexual, I mean.”

Spock was visibly taken aback – to the point where he shifted his body weight as if he wanted to take an actual step backwards. But then he replied, his voice level and completely without reflection. “I have shared expressions of physical affection according to human traditions with Lieutenant Uhura, as you are well aware.”

“Yeah, I know. Hugs and kisses. That’s not what I mean. Sex, Spock. Have you ever had sex?”

“I have experienced three orgasms in my life thus far,” Spock said. “Once at sixteen. Such manifestations of biological maturity are natural and found among Vulcans and Humans alike. After the first such experience, Vulcans are taught how to control such bodily functions. In my case it was necessary to demonstrate said functionality to the medics overseeing my physical development. Hence the second time.”

I must not project, Jim thought. I’m Human. He’s not. Or only half. And mostly Vulcan in upbringing. Must not. Project. Dammit.

He swallowed hard. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. “And the third time?”

Spock gazed at him, his pupils so wide his eyes appeared completely black. If Jim didn’t look away now, he’d do something stupid. He lowered his eyes. Another mistake. Those lips. Wide and sensual and so fucking beautiful. A breath away from a kiss, Jim hesitated. He could feel the heat of Spock’s mouth, and oh god, Jim wanted him so much it bloody hurt. But he drew back.

“Spock,” he said carefully, “I’m trying real hard not to mix up personal stuff with business here, but it’s kind of hard. See, in Human terms … you’re a virgin. And yeah, I get that this is all different for Vulcans, and Human standards don’t apply, and they are probably stupid anyway. But you know what’s not stupid? That an individual’s sexual intimacy is safeguarded if at all possible.” He shook his head. “… and even discounting my irrational Human hang-ups, there’s no way you can pull off that role convincingly without any practical experience. You’d blow the cover of the team within five minutes because you’d react the wrong way, superior Vulcan control or no.”

Jim recognized stubborn when he saw it, even if it was just a hard gleam in dark eyes, so he went right on, “Before you get any ideas about using your – your innocence as bait, I can tell you right now: not happening. Depending on the mission at stake there’s a limit to what’s acceptable as risk or personal sacrifice, in terms of safety and psychological health, but also regarding an individual’s ethics and culture. That limit? In this case, that’s it, right there. That’s not my emotional compromise talking, either. If you don’t believe me, we’ll go wake Doctor McCoy so he can declare you unfit for that mission. And trust me, he’ll do that.”

A long moment of silence. Heavy heartbeats measured the passage of time and did nothing to dissolve Jim’s tension, desire and apprehension and possessiveness and tenderness all mixed up and ready to explode. Spock’s face was a mask of perfect control. Jim had no idea what he was thinking now, what he was feeling now – if he was, if he allowed himself to.

At last Spock’s posture relaxed almost imperceptibly. “I accept your reasoning, Captain.”

Jim exhaled with relief. He wanted to say something else, but Spock’s gaze stopped him. “And …” Spock shifted, leaning in this time, close enough that Jim could feel his body heat. “… I appreciate your wish to protect my … my privacy – me. Jim.”

“Yeah, that’s me, defender of your innocence,” Jim muttered. He faced Spock as honestly as he could, no matter that he was flushing with an intense surge of heat. By now he must burn beet-red up to his ears. “I meant what I said, Spock. Every word. I’m absolutely certain it would go wrong. And the line I’m drawing in terms of personal risk in this case, it’s not about …” He raised his hand in the narrow space of warm air between them. “… not about that. But I can’t say there’s no personal level to this. And that level?” He sucked in a deep breath, the scent of hot skin, a hint of spice. “That level is all human macho shit.”

He put his arms around Spock, pressed against his body, hard. “If you’re willing to push the boundaries of Vulcan culture, if you’re really willing to risk that kind of intimacy, I want you to do that with me – for us. Not for some harebrained undercover mission.”

And then he claimed the kiss he’d been dreaming of for weeks now. “Mine,” he whispered against Spock’s lips. “Mine. I want you to be mine.”

♦♦♦

“The story of human intimacy is one of constantly allowing ourselves to see those we love most deeply in a new, more fractured light. Look hard. Risk that.”
– Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things

♦♦♦♦♦♦

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Author’s Notes

“Nam-tor shur temep-sharu na’tri-sochya.” – “Soup is the gateway to inner peace.” Based on a translation question at the Vulcanlanguage Tumblr (which is absolutely awesome if you’re into fictional languages; really, do take a look!): http://vulcanlanguage.tumblr.com/post/39859826510/question-about-translation