Chapter Text
“Nicky” is not a dignified name. (Even less so when she appends it with “darling.”) But Spock knows it’s part of the act they’re playing publicly. As uncomfortable as he finds “Nicky, darling” it is far preferable to Nirak.
When he’d first questioned her about why she chose Nirak, she’d put her hands on her hips and said, “You do understand I was fabricating our backstory on the fly, right?” Exasperation melted into contrition, and she sheepishly added, “It just popped into my head. I liked the way it sounded with Nova.”
A pleasant, percussive alliteration might have contributed subconsciously to the choice of assumed names – Uhura is musically inclined and a skilled linguist after all – but he can think of other names that would have worked with Nova just as well. Nevran. N’Keth. Nuval. (And yes, she is perfectly aware Nirak is both a proper name and a lower-case insult.)
But it was only after an incident at Macko’s Market that she understood why the name was… problematic.
They’d been in the produce section – she at one end of the aisle and he at the other – when she picked up an odd fruit and turned towards him. He could almost see his real name sliding over the back of her tongue before she caught herself.
“Nirak,” she cried, holding the fruit aloft, “Look! They’re calling this an apple.”
It was louder than necessary for the distance between them (overcompensating for her near misstep he supposed), and a few of the other shoppers glanced over amused, or in some cases, annoyed. But the two Vulcan women picking through a bin of root vegetables stopped what they were doing and swung around to rudely gape. Worse, they did not correct their rudeness by doing the polite thing, the Vulcan thing (pretend he was invisible) but rather, gave him a slow once over, from his head to his boots and back up again.
Vulcans don’t consider their tendency towards speculative hypothesizing to be the same as the human tendency to gossip, but as soon as the pair turned away and bent their heads together, he knew the “hypothesizing” had commenced.
Why would one of their own kind allow a noisy human female to pronounce him a fool so blatantly and in a public setting no less, they wondered? Loud enough for one of their own kind to overhear.
Out of the side of her mouth the older offered the younger a reasonable explanation. “Ozhika t’lok.”
An astonished bark of laughter rang out. Uhura clapped a hand over her mouth immediately, but her eyes were wide with a kind of involuntary, appalled glee.
Alerted not only to his companion's keen sense of hearing, but her language comprehension as well, the pair quickly decided the vegetables in their baskets were satisfactory and hurried towards the POS systems.
As they disappeared around a corner, Uhura came over to him still holding the Not-Apple. She didn’t even try to meet his eyes. “Did they just accuse you of thinking with your dick?”
Soon after that incident she stopped using Nirak and started calling him Nicky.
Right now however, her pointed emphasis on the name sounds an alarm in his hindbrain. Something is…off. Which, all things considered, is a fallacious, inexact, and completely useless conclusion. Something might as well be nothing.
So, he sets his nebulous concern aside. She has asked for his theory. It will require some background.
“Sixty years ago…” Unable to be more precise he adds, “or so” and rewarded with a smile, continues, “before Lyonuma became a haven for ex-patriates to conduct business while evading taxes, the Federation entered a phase of active evangelizing—"
“Evangelizing?” Uhura interrupts, “That’s a rather evocative word choice.”
“Recruiting then. They would establish temporary mission offices, install acting ambassadors with small staff and set about convincing warp-capable worlds of the benefits of becoming a member. There are well-established planetary embassies that began this way. The charter was not so robust as it is now of course. Articles in it from those early days still rankle applicants.”
She nods, but also rolls her hand impatiently to urge him to move the story along.
“It is possible the Lyonis and the Numanites would not agree to certain impositions on their authority. Add to that, two regime changes, political strife on both continents, and outside territorial disputes in this sector of space—”
“—and the acting ambassador is asked to leave.”
“Or stayed on in some other capacity. I regret I did not peruse records regarding Lyonuma’s interactions with the Federation prior to this mission. I did not anticipate needing them.”
“So, your theory is that some ambassador wannabe abandoned their office computer in order to…do what?”
“Profiteering seems likely. Or brokering for profiteers.”
She reaches out and pats the top of the computer. “Poor old thing. You weren’t worth much even in your prime, were you?”
Anthropomorphizing inanimate objects strikes him as indecorous. He responds with the reproach of a single raised eyebrow.
She launches out of the chair suddenly, bumping the table legs, startling him. Starts stacking their cups and saucers on top of each other with haphazard, misguided efficiency.
“That’s an awful lot of speculation on your part.” The tails of her robe fly out behind her as she carries the dishes, jostled and clinking, to the kitchen. "Quite unlike you, I have to say.
“I am extrapolating a plausible theory,” he ventures cautiously, “based on Federation history using this computer as a point of evidence.”
The dishes clatter in the sink. “How exactly does the origin of a useless piece of junk put us any closer to finding Eodetti Voch?”
It occurs to him that he has not become at all proficient in reading her emotional states, despite his earlier self-assurance. Sensing an urgency, as if their survival depends on it, he grasps at the smallest clue—
Her brows, furrowed, now arch upward. Her mouth is tight, then quirks to the side though not in amusement. She has one hand on her hip while the other grips the edge of the sink. She is… annoyed. Yes. And angry, but he thinks not with him. Anxious.
Afraid.
Recalling her gesture, he places his hand on the top of the computer and gives it a tap. “This piece of junk, with some minor adjustments, may enable us to locate our Starfleet communicators.”
She stares at him hard for a moment. Seems to swallow a harsher retort. “Alright. Good. Okay,” she says, starts the water and begins washing the cups.
The urge to direct her efforts towards more efficient methodology is strong. He closes his eyes briefly, takes a few meditative breaths in and out.
“Presuming it can do that, how long will it take do you suppose?”
“I cannot say definitively.” The dirty spoon she left behind he uses to poke at a glob of transmitter jelly. Wonders if he can salvage it or if he should attempt to obtain more.
“Make a list of what you need. I’ll ask around tonight.”
“That isn’t necessary. I have a source.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Best if you do not.”
“How much will it cost?”
“Again, I cannot say with any certainty.”
“Actual money though, right?”
“Probably.” He picks up an embee with rust colored hashmarks on a tan background. “Even so, perhaps you can inquire about this. A plot of land I think, or a share of it.”
She walks over to him, wiping damp hands with the hem of her robe. He laments her negligence. There is a dishtowel! Then remembers it’s still wet from the coffee spill.
“What’s on this one?” she asks, plucking an embee from the pile he’s set aside for further study. The psychedelic flower design has lost some vibrancy.
“I’m not sure what it was supposed to offer originally. The code that’s left is fractured, and there are patches of it missing, possibly the result of an attempt to transfer the contents to a micro-drive. In truth, the contents remind me of a logic game I played as a child.”
“Ooh, like Code Turtles?”
“Not remotely.”
She drops it back onto the pile with a dramatic sigh, declaring, “I'm going to have a very long bath. Do you need in there before I do?”
With the no on his tongue, he almost doesn’t look up to answer, but then he does and wishes he hadn’t.
Her robe’s untied, hanging open over her nightgown. The warm dark of her skin glows through the silk. His gaze slides from its fixed-point mid torso to the pucker of fabric at her navel, over the slope of abdomen and down to a triangular smoky smudge where pubis meets thighs.
There is ringing in his ears and the loud glug of him swallowing and swallowing again, and an echoing twitch between his own legs as the blood rushes south.
This is not—
He should not be—
Why is this—?
Why?
“Spock?”
It’s like she’s calling out to him from underground, his name muted by the thud of his heart. She says it again.
“Spock."
He stares down at his hands, loosely clenched around an emblematic.
“It’s Nicky,” he says, hard, between his teeth.
^^^
Uhura asks around about the embee with the hash marks and mostly gets shrugs until she shows it to Lartelle.
“Oh, those. Yeah. Unless you’re ready to invest, I wouldn’t bother. My friend Maize claimed a shoreline property in North Rersey and ended up owing twenty years of back taxes. Sometimes they try to stick you with development fees or fallow fees just for one itty bitty share. Not worth the risk for people like us.” Lartelle smiles, her teeth pearly against the dramatic blue lipstick. “We’ll never get ahead.”
Then she winks and goes off to wait in the wings for her cue.
Right before Uhura goes on for her solo set, the bouncer Sluka draws her aside. “You said to let you know if he’s in the house.”
She stiffens, so shaken she worries her vocal cords are going to seize up.
That won’t do.
Get it together, woman! Shake it off.
“Where’s he sitting?” she asks smoothly.
“Got the big banquette farthest from the kitchen. Usual goons with him, but no girl on his arm.” He gives her a significant look.
No girl means he’s looking for a new one.
She thanks him with a tenbit chit. Listens for her introduction then walks out to the opening chords of her signature song. As she grasps the microphone, she looks out over the audience but can’t make out her stalker in the recessed darkness.
“Skylark. Have you anything to say to me? Won’t you tell me where my love can be? Is there a meadow in the mist? Where someone’s waiting to be kissed?”
^^^
Fluto Barboza is not the sort of man who comes begging at the stage door, flowers in one hand, champagne in the other. That’s for crooked judges and politicians on the take. Or moon-eyed boys fresh off the farm.
Being above such things, he doesn’t so much linger outside the communal dressing room as encroach upon it; a conquering general granting its occupants the dignity of determining the conditions of their inevitable surrender. His enforcers stand far enough away to seem unobtrusive, but close enough to menace and knock some heads should it prove necessary.
Zeeza’s Palace is a good little money maker though not as classy as his club, The Eastside. He’ll fix that once he takes over in a year or two. But he can’t risk alienating anyone he might need down the road. Shadrach Zeeza, the miserable old bastard, has too many significant connections in the city. Turf wars are for chumps.
Doesn’t mean he can’t aggressively poach the talent.
A class act like Nova Fanchon shouldn’t have to grind and shimmy with the rest of the chorus. She ought to be the main act, not just a featured act. Ought to have her own dressing room at the very least.
He knocks but is surprised when it’s her that opens the door. She, on the other hand, doesn’t seem surprised at all. Seems resigned if anything, which he takes as a small triumph. Then she smiles and his tongue feels too big for his mouth.
“Mr. Barboza. What can I do for you?”
“Have supper with me at my club tonight.” Goddamn. He sounds like his balls just dropped.
“My husband might have some objections.”
“I don’t see him around, do you?”
A nervous dart of her big brown eyes toward the fire exit. In the dressing room behind her girls in stages of undress are giving her the stink-eye. Maybe because Miss Nova Fanchon has captured the attention of a bigwig like himself.
“Shut the goddamn door!”
Or maybe because the chill from the corridor is freezing their tits off.
Nova steps out, pulling the door closed. She’s dressed in street clothes. Got a velvet coat over her arm. Looks nice, stylish, but he wishes she was still dolled up to serenade him – blue sequined mesh clinging to her curves, long white gloves and sparkly bracelets, lips drenched in a shade called Black Honey (from a certain anonymous admirer).
“If it’s your husband you’re worried about, don’t. I mean no discourtesy to him, I assure you. He’s your manager. This is business. He’s welcome to join us. We can wrestle percentage of bar and box office over brandy and cigars.”
“I have a contract with the Palace, Mr. Barboza.”
“Eh. Me and old Shadrach can work something out. But I’d rather not discuss particulars here. Seems disrespectful.” He signals Penchy to bring the car around. “You must be hungry. I’ve got Vulcan mollusks from the Voroth sea sitting on ice back at my club. A nice crisp wine…”
She still seems chary but there’s less hesitation.
“Look,” he leans in to speak low, “there’s something else. I know you been asking around, looking for a certain courier fella name of Voch.”
She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“I don’t know him from Adam. But I’m not the only one who’s noticed you’re looking.” A little growl comes out of her. He goes for the capper. “Some unsavory sorts are looking for him too. Or maybe they’re helping him stay hid.”
She flicks a gaze at him from under her lashes. He can almost see her mind whirring away, calculating the best next move—
“It’s not my business why you’re looking for him but—”
“He stole from me,” she spits out, sharpish.
“—but I can assure you that when I go looking for someone, they get found.”
I’ll bring him to you trussed like a bird for roasting.
“Does that sweeten the pot any, Miss Fanchon?”
Her pretty lips go tight with resolve. When she starts pulling her gloves on, he knows he’s got her.
Penchy catches his eye, nods at the fire door. The car’s hovering outside.
She looks left down the corridor, then right, like she’s giving her man one last chance to come round the corner and partner up or change her mind.
Fluto offers her his arm. They lock eyes a moment. Then she nods and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow.