![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Someday, and the Rest of Your Life Chapter 5: (Spock/Uhura)
Title:Someday, and the Rest of Your Life
Spoilers: This story begins at the very end of Star Trek XI so spoilers for the entire movie.
Paring: Spock/Uhura
Summary: When the Enterprise receives a distress call from a Vulcan rescue vessel, Spock finds himself confronted by his past, and he must choose whether to uphold Vulcan traditions or find his own way.
A/N: As I don’t have yet have a beta for my new Star Trek obsession this work is un-betad.
Rating: PG for most of it, but my stories have a tendency to end up NC-17
Previous chapters can be found here.
Spock stood proud and tall on the bridge. If it were not for the fact that the other members of the bridge crew were looking at him with confused awe, he might have allowed himself the small vice of a smile.
Kirk had been correct in leaving him to sort out the mess of escape pods from the Nightingale. The task had at first seemed daunting, until he had looked at Mr. Chekov’s screen and seen the position of the ships.
It was chaotic and random, true, but not nearly as chaotic as a fresh game of kal-toh. Indeed, it reminded him a great deal of the simplified version that young Vulcan children played. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the ships seemed to move before his eyes. It was clear what the placement of every ship should be to form the cross section of an icosidodecahedron with the bow of the Enterprise as one of the points.
It seemed at first an easier solution to visualize then to actuate. It would be time consuming to pass the orders to each ship. There was surely a simpler way to organize them.
That’s when Spock realized the obvious. In her distress call the Nightingale has said she was carrying over two hundred Vulcan refugees. That was more than twice the population of the ships crew. It logically followed the many of the escape pods were being piloted by Vulcans, and that even the ones that were captained by Starfleet crew would have several Vulcans on board.
It was then simply a matter of opening a channel to all the escape pods and explaining in Vulcan the game he wished to play. The other Vulcan’s understood, and clearly saw the same solution he had seen. The ships quickly began to move into place, even the ships with human crews, soon realized the formation that was happening around them and joined in.
Within minutes the Enterprise was the head of a geometric figure, effectively creating two lines, one starboard and one port, allowing each shuttle bay to take in the escape pods in a neat and efficient manner.
Spock was delighted by the elegance of the solution he had found. What was more, for the first time since Vulcan’s destruction he felt hope. His people were a resilient race, and more than that they had logic on their side. Whatever was to come, whatever they built on their new colony, it would be beautiful, logical, and uniquely Vulcan.
The problem of organizing the rescue operations solved, Spock turned his attention to the Nightingale herself.
“Mr. Chekov,” Spock asked. “Are you monitoring the Nightingale?”
“Aye, sir. They’ve already brought two survivors aboard.”
“Good,” Spock concluded. “Keep a close watch on them. If there is any sign of the ship breaking up we may need to initiate emergency transport procedures. Ensign,” he spoke to the officer that had taken up Uhura’s position. “I want to monitor the away team’s communications. And put me through to the Captain.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Ensign responded.
After a moment Kirks voice came through, “Spock? Is everything all right up there?”
“Everything is operating with great efficiency,” Spock reported.
“Not perfect efficiency, Spock?” The Captain teased. “Sounds like you’re slipping.”
Spock was too pleased with how things were going to mind. “There is nothing inherently efficient about an icosidodecahedron, at least in terms of a rescue operation, however it is aesthetically pleasing to the Vulcan mind.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” the Captain replied. “Just tell me my ship is one piece.”
“Yes, Captain,” Spock responded. “And we should have all the survivors from the escape pods on board within the hour.”
“Really?” he sounded surprised, but then they had not known each other that long. “Well that is good news. Keep me apprised if anything changes. I should go check on Lieutenant Uhura. Kirk out.”
Check on Lieutenant Uhura? Then they were not then together? The implication was that she was not with any member of the away team. Did she need to be ‘checked on’? Spock couldn’t help but wonder if there there something he did not know about.
Spock’s elation began to fade, replaced by worry. Whatever the status of their personal relationship, Spock was uncomfortable with the idea that she might be in some sort of physical peril.
He was about to try her communicator frequency when her voice rang out through the bridge, “Mr. Scott, I need an emergency transport.” Her voice was certain, firm. Not panicked or frightened. “Now,” she ordered.
“Mr. Chekov, what’s happening?” Spock asked.
“I don’t know exactly, Sir. I had two life signs at the Lieutenant's position, now I have one.”
“Mr. Scott,” Spock contacted the transporter room. “How is Uhura?”
“I couldn’t tell ya, Commander,” the engineer replied.
“Did you not just beam her aboard? She requested an emergency transport.” Spock could feel his chest tighten. She had to be all right.
“Well, I teleported her communicator aboard, and the Vulcan woman who was holding it, but I’m afraid I don’t have a lock on the Lieutenant, and she’s in a bad spot sensor wise, if she doesn’t get closer to the transport point I’m not sure we’ll be able to pull her out.”
Spock closed the channel to the transporter room, and reopened the one to the Captain. “Sir, Lieutenant Uhura is still aboard the Nightingale, and without her communicator.”
“She’s what?” the Captain exclaimed angrily. “Didn’t she just-”
“Transport up? no Sir. It seems she gave her communicator to one of the survivors.” Was his voice still calm? Spock had no idea, only that he felt panic begin to grip him in a way it never had before. He couldn’t loose her too.
“I’m already on my way, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said before closing the channel.
“Mr. Sulu, you have the con,” Spock said as he entered the turbo lift.
His calm was cracking. What had happened. Why had she given up her communicator, her one lifeline to the ship?
Kirk was on his way, Spock reminded himself. He just needed to get their in time. . . in time for what? Perhaps she was fine. Perhaps she had evaluated her situation and seen no risk to herself, and that was why she had surrendered her communicator. But if that was so, why request an emergency transport?
Kirk would find her. It would be all right. Had not Kirk pursued Nyota at the Academy? She had often complained about it to Spock. Usually Kirk chased the easy prey. But he had persisted after Nyota for years. Did that mean he loved her?
Let him love her Spock pleaded silently. If Kirk loved her then logically there was nothing he would not do to save her. Please, let him love her.
Spock hurried down the passageway to the transporter room, every new moment of uncertainty bringing with it new anguish.
A stretcher carried by two crew members came down the passageway towards him. He paused only long enough to see the hand of the woman on the stretcher. It was too pale to be Nyota’s and so he ignored it and pressed on.
He entered the transporter room just in time to see Kirk lowering Nyota, so she could sit on the transporter pad while one of the ship’s medical personnel examined her.
“Is she all right?” Spock asked.
He was answered by a violent coughing fit. When Nyota’s hand came away from her mouth, it was bloody.
“It looks like she got a good whiff of reactor coolant. It’s non-toxic, but we better get her to sick bay,” the medic said.
“You heard the man, Mr. Spock,” the Captain said. “Get the Lieutenant to sick bay.”
“Aye sir,” Spock said lifting Nyota up.
There was something strange about the Captain’s tone. Almost teasing as if Spock were somehow at the center of a joke. Spock did not pretend to understand most of human humor. And at the moment there were more important things to worry about.
~~~~~~~~~~
Every bed in sickbay was full. Spock was forced to set Nyota down in a chair as he tried to get the Doctor’s attention.
“Doctor, Lieutenant Uhura is not well. I believe she has inhaled reactor coolant.” It seemed wise to Spock to pass on the information from the medic in the transporter room.
McCoy only glanced briefly at Uhura. “I swear, have they stopped teaching triage? I would have thought you Vulcans at least would understand how this works.”
“Doctor-” Spock started, but McCoy cut him off.
“Can you see I have a dozen people who are critical here,” he looked over at Uhura again. “Nurse Chapel,” he called out.
One of the nurses grabbed an oxygen mask, and attached a canister to it, before putting it over Uhura’s face. “Take a few shallow breaths at first,” the nurse instructed. “Then when you feel ready take some deeper breaths. This will mix both a pain killer and something to help heal your lungs with the air.”
Nyota nodded, and slowly began to breathe though the mask. Spock crouched in front of her and was grateful to note that it seemed to work quickly as her breathing became more even.
McCoy never looked up from the patient he was working on, but after a few minutes he commented to no one in particular. “You should tell Lieutenant Uhura that next time she wants to risk her life to save a critically injured patient she should choose one that wants to live.”
Spock wasn’t really listening, his every sense was focused on Nyota, searching for any sign that the treatment might not be working, that she might be getting worse.
Uhura on the other hand heard every word. She looked up in alarm, and grabbed Spock’s arm. When he didn’t understand she pulled the mask away from her face and said one word, “T’Pring.”
Her voice was harsh and scratchy almost unrecognizable. And for a moment he was not sure he had herd her correctly. Yet he could think of nothing else she might have meant to say.
“Stop that,” McCoy snapped. “I know you’re the communications officer, but no talking until we get you checked out.”
Spock rose slowly, pulling away from Nyota forcing her from his senses. As he turned to face the rest of the sick bay, he reached out with his mind, looking for something he wasn’t entirely sure was there; a bond created in childhood.
And it was there. He had not noticed it until he looked for it, but it was unmistakable. T’Pring, the woman he had been engaged to when he was only seven years old.
She lay on one of the doctor’s beds. He had only seen her once, but it was her. She had grown into a lovely woman, and he wondered what she would think of him, if only she were conscious.
His eyes moved quickly to the medical scanner. He was no doctor, but it was clear that her condition was getting worse, that she was slipping away. Despite the bond, Spock felt no emotional connection to her, he knew nothing of life she had led. But for as long as he could remember, T’Pring had been his future. With his past gone, he could not bear the thought of loosing her.
Without thinking he uttered the words he had learned so long ago, “Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched.”
He placed his fingers gently on her temple intending to initiate the most tenuous of connection. Instead he was violently swept into her mind. It was not the childhood bond that overwhelmed him. It was the new bond they shared: that of grief, of sorrow, of unmeasurable loss.
It pulled them in, joined them together, until Spock did not know where he ended and T’Pring began.
Vulcan passed quickly beneath the shuttle. T’Pring was content, excited. Soon she would see Stonn, her lover, again. It had been too long.
A simple beep alerted the passengers that pilot had a message to pass to them.
“A general evacuation of Vulcan has been ordered. Prepare to leave atmosphere in 43 seconds.”
Confusion
Voices rang out throughout the bridge. Everywhere instruments beeped in alarm.
“If my calculations are correct,” Mr. Chekov reported. “They’re creating a singularity,” he paused. “That will consume the planet.”
Horrid realization filled Spock. The equations floated through his mind, the science unbelievable and yet indisputable.
“They are creating a black hole at the center of Vulcan,” he said as the implications unfolded with terrible logic.
“Yes, Sir,” Chekov affirmed sadly.
“How long does the planet have?” Spock asked, although he cloud already estimate the answer.
“Minutes Sir,” the young Ensign shrugged, helpless in the face of so large a disaster. “Minutes.”
A thousand thoughts flooded Spock’s mind. Why hadn’t he listened to Kirk’s warnings of a Romulan trap sooner? Why had he followed Captain Pike’s orders? Why hadn’t he fired on the mining laser which was so clearly harming the planet instead of worrying about the safety of the Enterprise and her crew?
He rose, forcing away thoughts of what he could have done, focusing instead on what needed to be done.
“Alert Vulcan Command Center to order a planet wide evacuation,” he ordered Nyota. “All channels all frequencies.”
Recognition
There was pain, from her legs and back where part of the collapsing corridor had crushed her. T’Pring did not mind. Pain was a phantom of the mind. It could be found, isolated, and locked away the same way she had learned to lock away her emotions.
Besides, she was going to meet Stonn at last.
A shadow, a voice. Speaking in Vulcan but with a crude dialect. A woman in a Starfleet uniform who tried to offer hope.
Hope was illogical.
All T’Pring wanted was to die, to see Stonn again, and not to have the last words of Vulcan she heard come from the clumsy lips of a human.
Under the circumstances, to be granted two out of three desires, was statistically favorable.
She tried to make the woman leave, but the woman was irrational, illogical.
And then she heard the name. Spock.
A moment of anger, unwanted, quickly forced away. Of course he had survived.
T’Pring spoke her name to the Starfleet woman who wouldn’t leave her alone. “Tell Spock, we shall never meet at the appointed place.”
Remembrance
Spock exited his office. It was late. He had been caught up in a new algorithm that he wanted to incorporate in the Kobayashi Maru. It was a great honor to be allowed to work on the simulation and Spock was eager to show he had been the right choice. He had however let the time get away from him and it was very late.
To his surprise the class room was not empty. Cadet Uhura still sat at the desk where he had left her hours ago to aid him by grading papers. She had fallen asleep at the task.
Curious Spock watched her. He had never allowed himself the privilege of watching her sleep. Their relationship went against Starfleet regulations governing fraternization between instructors and students. They were therefore, always discreet.
He knew the relationship was an illogical risk. And yet, he reflected, no more illogical than giving up Nyota to marry a Vulcan woman whom he had never met.
Agreement
“When the time comes, he may not want me,” T’Pring said.
“Any Vulcan male would logically want you,” Stonn countered.
She brushed her fingertips against his, wordlessly sharing her appreciation of the compliment.
“And yet no Vulcan ever turned down a position in the Science Academy,” T’Pring argued. “Who may say what Spock will do?”
Spock’s actions troubled her. To refuse the Academy for Starfleet had made him something of a legend. T’Pring did not want to be the wife of a legend.
Stonn shrugged. “What will you do?” he asked.
“I shall follow whatever path logic dictates,” she said coyly.
“There is always the kal-if-fee,” Stonn suggests. “He is a half-breed, prone to emotion. I am sure to win.”
Anger
“You feel nothing. It must not even compute for you.” Kirk’s face was only inches from Spock’s. “You never loved her.”
The words broke Spock. Anger erupted through him. There was no control, no logic, only a need he had no words for.
Rage consumed him. The desire to destroy his enemy filled him.
Only his father’s voice calling his name, broke through the red haze. Brought some sense of order back to Spock’s mind.
It was enough to stop him before he permanently damaged James Kirk, but it was too late to set things right.
He could no longer command. It was not enough he had been unable to save Vulcan, he was not even capable of avenging her.
“Spock!”
It was not so much McCoy’s voice, but the rough way the Doctor shoved him aside that broke cycle of memory between the two Vulcans.
Spock took a deep breath and pulled backwards trying to reorient himself to the physical world of the here and now.
His eyes met T’Pring’s. A word formed in his mind, but it was her lips that whispered it, “Kam’natsu.”
He faced away. He thought that word had long ago lost it’s ability to hurt him. That he had long since disproved the failed logic of childhood tormentors.
He was wrong.
Kam’natsu.
The doctor was buzzing in the background. “I don’t know what you did, Spock, but she’s stabilizing. Nurse!”
Spock turned his back on T’Pring.
Kam’natsu.
It rang in his ears.
He looked up and his eyes met Nyota’s. She looked at him curiously, asking as best she could without words what was happening.
He was grateful that she hadn’t heard. She alone would have understood.
Kam’natsu.
Traitor.
Spoilers: This story begins at the very end of Star Trek XI so spoilers for the entire movie.
Paring: Spock/Uhura
Summary: When the Enterprise receives a distress call from a Vulcan rescue vessel, Spock finds himself confronted by his past, and he must choose whether to uphold Vulcan traditions or find his own way.
A/N: As I don’t have yet have a beta for my new Star Trek obsession this work is un-betad.
Rating: PG for most of it, but my stories have a tendency to end up NC-17
Previous chapters can be found here.
Spock stood proud and tall on the bridge. If it were not for the fact that the other members of the bridge crew were looking at him with confused awe, he might have allowed himself the small vice of a smile.
Kirk had been correct in leaving him to sort out the mess of escape pods from the Nightingale. The task had at first seemed daunting, until he had looked at Mr. Chekov’s screen and seen the position of the ships.
It was chaotic and random, true, but not nearly as chaotic as a fresh game of kal-toh. Indeed, it reminded him a great deal of the simplified version that young Vulcan children played. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the ships seemed to move before his eyes. It was clear what the placement of every ship should be to form the cross section of an icosidodecahedron with the bow of the Enterprise as one of the points.
It seemed at first an easier solution to visualize then to actuate. It would be time consuming to pass the orders to each ship. There was surely a simpler way to organize them.
That’s when Spock realized the obvious. In her distress call the Nightingale has said she was carrying over two hundred Vulcan refugees. That was more than twice the population of the ships crew. It logically followed the many of the escape pods were being piloted by Vulcans, and that even the ones that were captained by Starfleet crew would have several Vulcans on board.
It was then simply a matter of opening a channel to all the escape pods and explaining in Vulcan the game he wished to play. The other Vulcan’s understood, and clearly saw the same solution he had seen. The ships quickly began to move into place, even the ships with human crews, soon realized the formation that was happening around them and joined in.
Within minutes the Enterprise was the head of a geometric figure, effectively creating two lines, one starboard and one port, allowing each shuttle bay to take in the escape pods in a neat and efficient manner.
Spock was delighted by the elegance of the solution he had found. What was more, for the first time since Vulcan’s destruction he felt hope. His people were a resilient race, and more than that they had logic on their side. Whatever was to come, whatever they built on their new colony, it would be beautiful, logical, and uniquely Vulcan.
The problem of organizing the rescue operations solved, Spock turned his attention to the Nightingale herself.
“Mr. Chekov,” Spock asked. “Are you monitoring the Nightingale?”
“Aye, sir. They’ve already brought two survivors aboard.”
“Good,” Spock concluded. “Keep a close watch on them. If there is any sign of the ship breaking up we may need to initiate emergency transport procedures. Ensign,” he spoke to the officer that had taken up Uhura’s position. “I want to monitor the away team’s communications. And put me through to the Captain.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Ensign responded.
After a moment Kirks voice came through, “Spock? Is everything all right up there?”
“Everything is operating with great efficiency,” Spock reported.
“Not perfect efficiency, Spock?” The Captain teased. “Sounds like you’re slipping.”
Spock was too pleased with how things were going to mind. “There is nothing inherently efficient about an icosidodecahedron, at least in terms of a rescue operation, however it is aesthetically pleasing to the Vulcan mind.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” the Captain replied. “Just tell me my ship is one piece.”
“Yes, Captain,” Spock responded. “And we should have all the survivors from the escape pods on board within the hour.”
“Really?” he sounded surprised, but then they had not known each other that long. “Well that is good news. Keep me apprised if anything changes. I should go check on Lieutenant Uhura. Kirk out.”
Check on Lieutenant Uhura? Then they were not then together? The implication was that she was not with any member of the away team. Did she need to be ‘checked on’? Spock couldn’t help but wonder if there there something he did not know about.
Spock’s elation began to fade, replaced by worry. Whatever the status of their personal relationship, Spock was uncomfortable with the idea that she might be in some sort of physical peril.
He was about to try her communicator frequency when her voice rang out through the bridge, “Mr. Scott, I need an emergency transport.” Her voice was certain, firm. Not panicked or frightened. “Now,” she ordered.
“Mr. Chekov, what’s happening?” Spock asked.
“I don’t know exactly, Sir. I had two life signs at the Lieutenant's position, now I have one.”
“Mr. Scott,” Spock contacted the transporter room. “How is Uhura?”
“I couldn’t tell ya, Commander,” the engineer replied.
“Did you not just beam her aboard? She requested an emergency transport.” Spock could feel his chest tighten. She had to be all right.
“Well, I teleported her communicator aboard, and the Vulcan woman who was holding it, but I’m afraid I don’t have a lock on the Lieutenant, and she’s in a bad spot sensor wise, if she doesn’t get closer to the transport point I’m not sure we’ll be able to pull her out.”
Spock closed the channel to the transporter room, and reopened the one to the Captain. “Sir, Lieutenant Uhura is still aboard the Nightingale, and without her communicator.”
“She’s what?” the Captain exclaimed angrily. “Didn’t she just-”
“Transport up? no Sir. It seems she gave her communicator to one of the survivors.” Was his voice still calm? Spock had no idea, only that he felt panic begin to grip him in a way it never had before. He couldn’t loose her too.
“I’m already on my way, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said before closing the channel.
“Mr. Sulu, you have the con,” Spock said as he entered the turbo lift.
His calm was cracking. What had happened. Why had she given up her communicator, her one lifeline to the ship?
Kirk was on his way, Spock reminded himself. He just needed to get their in time. . . in time for what? Perhaps she was fine. Perhaps she had evaluated her situation and seen no risk to herself, and that was why she had surrendered her communicator. But if that was so, why request an emergency transport?
Kirk would find her. It would be all right. Had not Kirk pursued Nyota at the Academy? She had often complained about it to Spock. Usually Kirk chased the easy prey. But he had persisted after Nyota for years. Did that mean he loved her?
Let him love her Spock pleaded silently. If Kirk loved her then logically there was nothing he would not do to save her. Please, let him love her.
Spock hurried down the passageway to the transporter room, every new moment of uncertainty bringing with it new anguish.
A stretcher carried by two crew members came down the passageway towards him. He paused only long enough to see the hand of the woman on the stretcher. It was too pale to be Nyota’s and so he ignored it and pressed on.
He entered the transporter room just in time to see Kirk lowering Nyota, so she could sit on the transporter pad while one of the ship’s medical personnel examined her.
“Is she all right?” Spock asked.
He was answered by a violent coughing fit. When Nyota’s hand came away from her mouth, it was bloody.
“It looks like she got a good whiff of reactor coolant. It’s non-toxic, but we better get her to sick bay,” the medic said.
“You heard the man, Mr. Spock,” the Captain said. “Get the Lieutenant to sick bay.”
“Aye sir,” Spock said lifting Nyota up.
There was something strange about the Captain’s tone. Almost teasing as if Spock were somehow at the center of a joke. Spock did not pretend to understand most of human humor. And at the moment there were more important things to worry about.
~~~~~~~~~~
Every bed in sickbay was full. Spock was forced to set Nyota down in a chair as he tried to get the Doctor’s attention.
“Doctor, Lieutenant Uhura is not well. I believe she has inhaled reactor coolant.” It seemed wise to Spock to pass on the information from the medic in the transporter room.
McCoy only glanced briefly at Uhura. “I swear, have they stopped teaching triage? I would have thought you Vulcans at least would understand how this works.”
“Doctor-” Spock started, but McCoy cut him off.
“Can you see I have a dozen people who are critical here,” he looked over at Uhura again. “Nurse Chapel,” he called out.
One of the nurses grabbed an oxygen mask, and attached a canister to it, before putting it over Uhura’s face. “Take a few shallow breaths at first,” the nurse instructed. “Then when you feel ready take some deeper breaths. This will mix both a pain killer and something to help heal your lungs with the air.”
Nyota nodded, and slowly began to breathe though the mask. Spock crouched in front of her and was grateful to note that it seemed to work quickly as her breathing became more even.
McCoy never looked up from the patient he was working on, but after a few minutes he commented to no one in particular. “You should tell Lieutenant Uhura that next time she wants to risk her life to save a critically injured patient she should choose one that wants to live.”
Spock wasn’t really listening, his every sense was focused on Nyota, searching for any sign that the treatment might not be working, that she might be getting worse.
Uhura on the other hand heard every word. She looked up in alarm, and grabbed Spock’s arm. When he didn’t understand she pulled the mask away from her face and said one word, “T’Pring.”
Her voice was harsh and scratchy almost unrecognizable. And for a moment he was not sure he had herd her correctly. Yet he could think of nothing else she might have meant to say.
“Stop that,” McCoy snapped. “I know you’re the communications officer, but no talking until we get you checked out.”
Spock rose slowly, pulling away from Nyota forcing her from his senses. As he turned to face the rest of the sick bay, he reached out with his mind, looking for something he wasn’t entirely sure was there; a bond created in childhood.
And it was there. He had not noticed it until he looked for it, but it was unmistakable. T’Pring, the woman he had been engaged to when he was only seven years old.
She lay on one of the doctor’s beds. He had only seen her once, but it was her. She had grown into a lovely woman, and he wondered what she would think of him, if only she were conscious.
His eyes moved quickly to the medical scanner. He was no doctor, but it was clear that her condition was getting worse, that she was slipping away. Despite the bond, Spock felt no emotional connection to her, he knew nothing of life she had led. But for as long as he could remember, T’Pring had been his future. With his past gone, he could not bear the thought of loosing her.
Without thinking he uttered the words he had learned so long ago, “Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched.”
He placed his fingers gently on her temple intending to initiate the most tenuous of connection. Instead he was violently swept into her mind. It was not the childhood bond that overwhelmed him. It was the new bond they shared: that of grief, of sorrow, of unmeasurable loss.
It pulled them in, joined them together, until Spock did not know where he ended and T’Pring began.
Vulcan passed quickly beneath the shuttle. T’Pring was content, excited. Soon she would see Stonn, her lover, again. It had been too long.
A simple beep alerted the passengers that pilot had a message to pass to them.
“A general evacuation of Vulcan has been ordered. Prepare to leave atmosphere in 43 seconds.”
Confusion
Voices rang out throughout the bridge. Everywhere instruments beeped in alarm.
“If my calculations are correct,” Mr. Chekov reported. “They’re creating a singularity,” he paused. “That will consume the planet.”
Horrid realization filled Spock. The equations floated through his mind, the science unbelievable and yet indisputable.
“They are creating a black hole at the center of Vulcan,” he said as the implications unfolded with terrible logic.
“Yes, Sir,” Chekov affirmed sadly.
“How long does the planet have?” Spock asked, although he cloud already estimate the answer.
“Minutes Sir,” the young Ensign shrugged, helpless in the face of so large a disaster. “Minutes.”
A thousand thoughts flooded Spock’s mind. Why hadn’t he listened to Kirk’s warnings of a Romulan trap sooner? Why had he followed Captain Pike’s orders? Why hadn’t he fired on the mining laser which was so clearly harming the planet instead of worrying about the safety of the Enterprise and her crew?
He rose, forcing away thoughts of what he could have done, focusing instead on what needed to be done.
“Alert Vulcan Command Center to order a planet wide evacuation,” he ordered Nyota. “All channels all frequencies.”
Recognition
There was pain, from her legs and back where part of the collapsing corridor had crushed her. T’Pring did not mind. Pain was a phantom of the mind. It could be found, isolated, and locked away the same way she had learned to lock away her emotions.
Besides, she was going to meet Stonn at last.
A shadow, a voice. Speaking in Vulcan but with a crude dialect. A woman in a Starfleet uniform who tried to offer hope.
Hope was illogical.
All T’Pring wanted was to die, to see Stonn again, and not to have the last words of Vulcan she heard come from the clumsy lips of a human.
Under the circumstances, to be granted two out of three desires, was statistically favorable.
She tried to make the woman leave, but the woman was irrational, illogical.
And then she heard the name. Spock.
A moment of anger, unwanted, quickly forced away. Of course he had survived.
T’Pring spoke her name to the Starfleet woman who wouldn’t leave her alone. “Tell Spock, we shall never meet at the appointed place.”
Remembrance
Spock exited his office. It was late. He had been caught up in a new algorithm that he wanted to incorporate in the Kobayashi Maru. It was a great honor to be allowed to work on the simulation and Spock was eager to show he had been the right choice. He had however let the time get away from him and it was very late.
To his surprise the class room was not empty. Cadet Uhura still sat at the desk where he had left her hours ago to aid him by grading papers. She had fallen asleep at the task.
Curious Spock watched her. He had never allowed himself the privilege of watching her sleep. Their relationship went against Starfleet regulations governing fraternization between instructors and students. They were therefore, always discreet.
He knew the relationship was an illogical risk. And yet, he reflected, no more illogical than giving up Nyota to marry a Vulcan woman whom he had never met.
Agreement
“When the time comes, he may not want me,” T’Pring said.
“Any Vulcan male would logically want you,” Stonn countered.
She brushed her fingertips against his, wordlessly sharing her appreciation of the compliment.
“And yet no Vulcan ever turned down a position in the Science Academy,” T’Pring argued. “Who may say what Spock will do?”
Spock’s actions troubled her. To refuse the Academy for Starfleet had made him something of a legend. T’Pring did not want to be the wife of a legend.
Stonn shrugged. “What will you do?” he asked.
“I shall follow whatever path logic dictates,” she said coyly.
“There is always the kal-if-fee,” Stonn suggests. “He is a half-breed, prone to emotion. I am sure to win.”
Anger
“You feel nothing. It must not even compute for you.” Kirk’s face was only inches from Spock’s. “You never loved her.”
The words broke Spock. Anger erupted through him. There was no control, no logic, only a need he had no words for.
Rage consumed him. The desire to destroy his enemy filled him.
Only his father’s voice calling his name, broke through the red haze. Brought some sense of order back to Spock’s mind.
It was enough to stop him before he permanently damaged James Kirk, but it was too late to set things right.
He could no longer command. It was not enough he had been unable to save Vulcan, he was not even capable of avenging her.
“Spock!”
It was not so much McCoy’s voice, but the rough way the Doctor shoved him aside that broke cycle of memory between the two Vulcans.
Spock took a deep breath and pulled backwards trying to reorient himself to the physical world of the here and now.
His eyes met T’Pring’s. A word formed in his mind, but it was her lips that whispered it, “Kam’natsu.”
He faced away. He thought that word had long ago lost it’s ability to hurt him. That he had long since disproved the failed logic of childhood tormentors.
He was wrong.
Kam’natsu.
The doctor was buzzing in the background. “I don’t know what you did, Spock, but she’s stabilizing. Nurse!”
Spock turned his back on T’Pring.
Kam’natsu.
It rang in his ears.
He looked up and his eyes met Nyota’s. She looked at him curiously, asking as best she could without words what was happening.
He was grateful that she hadn’t heard. She alone would have understood.
Kam’natsu.
Traitor.