Chapter Text
Spock stood awkwardly at the end of Shashi’s bed as a nurse took the neonate from her arms and returned it to the warming cot the orderlies had rigged up next to her. The nurse, a slight-framed human male, acknowledged Spock’s presence with a vague smile and a nod and then left the room.
Shashi had been a member of the mining consortium, originally from the northern part of Khomi province. Mining had been the primary industry there and her phenotype was typical of the area – solid, broad shouldered with nut-brown skin, thick brows, tawny eyes, and small ears with blunted pinna. Her black hair lay in wavy wisps and clumps against the pale gray of the pillow.
“I am not permitted to lift or carry him yet,” she explained in a calm manner, as if viscous tears were not sliding down her face. Did she think he was judging her for not placing the infant in the cot herself? She was recovering from an emergency surgical birth. He could see the distended swell of her abdomen beneath the blanket.
Vulcans rarely wasted water on tears.
“Do you require assistance managing pain?” he asked. It was also a polite way of inquiring about her emotional lapse.
“This is a normal postpartum physiological response. The result of hormones. I can still converse with some level of dispassion if you can ignore the weeping.”
He nodded. She closed her eyes. The moments stretched on and he suspected she was drifting into slumber. “Dr. McCoy said you wished to speak with me.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of a hand. “Yes. My cousin Talu has been calling out to me. I believe she needs tow-kath but cannot enter into it because of the sedation.”
A healing trance. “How may I serve?”
“Determine if this is so and if it is, ask that they cease the use of sedatives and pain medication.”
He could already imagine how well that conversation with Dr. McCoy would go. “I am given to understand she experienced a traumatic brain injury and is sedated to prevent agitation.”
“Her continued agitation is the result of not being able to use the natural method of her body to heal.” She shifted in discomfort. “Though, I admit, I cannot be certain. My biology is in flux. My emotional control is fragile. You, however, can easily make such a determination with a simple touch.”
His hesitation was palpable, and her frustration with it quick to rise. “Mr. Spock, if you think she will see a truth you do not wish to acknowledge—”
“No. That is—”
“We know our Mother world is gone. Dead. We already know.”
A burden eased then.
He expected relief but experienced only weariness and a quick stab of guilt. On another corridor, in another room, the family of Perren of the Sinti Clan Trazhu, of the vessel T’Sai Suk, performed a ritual for the dead before her body went into cold storage. Away from that tragedy, but close by, T’Izhlen, once denizen of Vulcana Regar, taken from the yacht Valencia, labored to expel a dead fetus. And elsewhere on the Enterprise women and children were sleeping their first sleep out of captivity in years – for some of the children, their first ever. They knew, all of them, that there was no home world full of eager family awaiting their return.
“It seems unfathomable even now,” Shashi murmured, gazing unfocused past his shoulder. She shuddered, glanced quickly at him then down to her hands resting on her lap. “We thought at first that we had been intentionally abandoned, severed from the world, from k’war’ma’khon. The idea that we had been shunned was somehow easier to comprehend. Because how was it possible that our entire planet, the Mother of All, was gone? But as soon as we saw you, we knew.” Her hands rise, sketch a wavy pattern in the air before him. “It is all over you. Lak’tra wadi. ”
Grief, the second skin. An old saying. An old concept, wholly inadequate to the circumstances, to the weight of this deep communal mourning he thought he’d moved through. But it had sunk below the surface, into the marrow, woven into cells. Grief on a molecular level. Inextricable, immeasurable, inescapable—
“—passed to our children through mitochondria for as long as we exist,” Shashi intoned in a thick, harsh whisper. She had picked up the threads of his thoughts as if they were her own.
A tiny high-pitched wail broke into the void of their dark musings, startling them both, and sobering Spock instantly.
No. No. Children must never be burdened with this, else what is the point of even trying to rebuild?
Shashi threw back the blanket to get to her child, but Spock was at the cot before she’d swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The face of the swaddled infant was mottled olive and vivid green, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, tiny chest heaving between cries. Shashi’s urgent need to hold and comfort her son pounded like a fist between Spock’s shoulder blades, but he stood frozen, staring down at a person so small that a meter’s drop might damage or kill it.
The nurse swept in then, edging Spock aside with an unrestrained sing-song prattle. “Oh, no! Baby, baby, my goodness gracious, what’s got you so upset, huh? Tummy ache? Do you have a gassy tummy? Come here then. Poor little baby, poor little boo.”
Shashi and Spock exchanged a look. The infant seemed to share their unexpressed opinion. He ceased his cries in a cross-eyed attempt to focus on the mouth making all the ridiculous noise. But as soon as he was in his mother’s arms again, he began to screech as if the dark thoughts hovering over them had returned to permeate the little sponge of his mind.
Spock willed the nurse to leave them with an icy stare. It was several minutes before Shashi had quieted the child.
He waited, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed.
“What is it you wish to say, Spock.”
“This one asks forgiveness for a lapse in control, T’sai Shashi.”
She dismissed his excessively formal apology. “Not all dark thoughts are yours."
“Nor is it all darkness. Your child will be free to choose his own path. You are free to choose yours.”
“How shall I make this choice? What is left for us? Where will we go?”
“We were granted the rights to colonize the second planet of system Simon-316. Infrastructure for the first city is nearly established. The heavy construction printers are operating. Healing centers, housing and city buildings going up, arable land developed. I believe there is even a homesteading scheme under consideration.” He paused. Her expression was flat, not properly neutral but not as bleak. “New Vulcan.”
Her mouth curled at the name. “It speaks to a desperate sanguinity.” He did not disagree. Then she asked how many were left and he felt himself sinking again.
“12,070 people survived the destruction.” She squeezed her eyes shut, arms tightening around the swaddled bundle in her arms. He added, “But some of our people were safe on other worlds. 491,838 at last count.”
“My family are generational miners. We rarely ventured off-world.”
But she had. Left home, took a risk. And now, the worst consequence of that risk, all that she had suffered, was also the reason she still existed, and her family did not.
“I will provide you – all of you – with the name lists so that you might search for relations.” He stopped himself from calculating the odds of finding any. She was perfectly capable of reckoning the odds herself and he wished to convey some sense of hope. Yet he struggled to find words without emotive or supernatural connotations to summon that quality.
Their rescue had not been due to miracles or serendipity. It was not a convergence of coincidences, nor the result of Spock’s superlative character, as the captain had implied. Accumulated evidence and conditional probability meant the outpost would likely have been discovered by someone at some point in the future. Perhaps a few of the women might have lived long enough for that to occur, or at least some of their offspring might have. Perhaps.
“I could not save my mother,” he said, suddenly. She looked up, sharp-eyed. He swallowed convulsively. “But you – you are here and alive. Your son has his mother. It is reason enough for me to be grateful.”
“Mr. Spock, do not misunderstand. I am grateful as well, but Talu nearly died to make it possible.”
That was his cue. “I shall tend to your request now.”
He left her and proceeded to the intensive care unit.
***
It takes Spock thirty-three seconds of contact with Talu to determine that the medically induced coma has outlived its usefulness. But Dr. Hemati, the physician on duty, is unconvinced of his ability to speak for a woman in a medically induced coma. She informs him that he will need to voice his concerns to Dr. McCoy when he is back on duty at 0800.
It is currently 0422. Spock does not anticipate a response from his father at the New Vulcan colony before noon, ship’s time. His body requires rest, his mind needs meditation, but when he enters his cabin, he finds Nyota is asleep on his bed. Save for her boots (removed and discarded in an untidy tumble at the foot of the bed), she’s still in uniform. She lies with her back to him, all curves, and slopes, and waves. He permits himself a brief swell of contentment and desire, then toes off his own boots and slips into bed beside her. He will meditate to the sound of her gentle snoring. Or so is his intention.
A chime from his desk console awakens him. It is 0740, twenty minutes before he is scheduled to be on duty again. He is still lying in the same position but Nyota is now sweat glued to his side, her leg over his knees, arm draped across his chest, face nestled in his armpit. The contusion on her forehead is less pronounced, and he resists the urge to brush his thumb over it. The chime sounds again.
Extricating himself as gently as he can, he stumbles over his own boots as he reaches the comm and croaks, “Spock, here.”
“Good morning, sir,” the voice of Ensign Jingyi is, as always, too cheery. “I’m patching through a call from Ambassador Sarek for you.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later the ambassador’s visage appears onscreen. “Father. I was not expecting a response from you this soon.”
“So I see.” Sarek’s keen gaze has shifted from a specific point over Spock’s shoulder and back again. Spock keeps his face carefully neutral. Sarek blinks first. “Our new communications arrays are providing improved transmission bursts, courtesy of a generous donation from the Sindotec Corporation.”
“An excellent public relations opportunity for a company facing crippling sanctions from several UFP environmental regulatory commissions.”
“Indeed,” his father replies. Only another Vulcan (or perhaps only his son) would be able to discern the rejective displeasure in Sarek’s countenance.
Spock recalls a story McCoy once told, about “canoodling” in his childhood bedroom with his not-yet wife when his grandmother suddenly walked in on them. How quickly he’d gone from adult to child with one disapproving gaze.
On the bed behind him, Nyota stirs with a squeaky sigh. His father’s eyes narrow fractionally, and Spock has the alarming urge to laugh. Sarek’s next words quash it thoroughly.
“I assumed you had settled this affair by now.”
His father is perfectly cognizant of the various idiomatic usages of the word “affair” in human cultures. An old dynamic between them flares up.
Edicts and defiance.
“I never agreed to that.”
“Your continued intimacy with this young person strikes me as irresponsible and callous.”
“It is neither.”
“You would dismiss your duty to your people so easily?”
“I do not dismiss my duty at all, easily or otherwise. My duty is currently best served onboard the Enterprise.” He raises a hand to stop further argument. “To that point, the reason I have contacted you.” He then summarizes the rescue mission and its successful conclusion.
“…there are eighteen adult females and twenty-one children. Eight of those are infants. Four of the women are visibly pregnant, though there may be others. They will undergo medical assessments over the next two days.”
“How many of the children are Romulan?”
“None of them are Romulan, Father. Twelve are half Vulcan.”
Sarek looks vaguely contrite. “Forgive me. That was an ill-considered query.”
“These children are a gift.”
“Yes…”
“I know that when I was a child you believed I should have been more capable of weathering the regular abuses from my peers concerning my…racial shortcomings, and perhaps you were correct—”
“I was not.”
That is an unexpected admission. “Then you realize these children should never be made to endure the prejudicial treatment that I often experienced. Such behavior is a serious moral failing in a logical people. You must give me your word it will not be tolerated, ignored or otherwise overlooked.”
“You have my word, Spock.”
He can sense that Nyota is now awake and aware. Listening.
“What of the women taken from the SS Chibuzo?” Sarek asks. “Stolvoc, a father to one of them, has joined us at the colony. He had been pursuing a search for his daughter on his own and was off-world at the time of the-the catastrophe.”
“None of those women are still alive. It is not confirmed, but generally accepted."
Sarek closes his eyes, his posture sags. It is the first time Spock notices how weary his father appears. “However," he offers, "Stolvoc is likely to have at least one living grandchild residing somewhere within the Romulan Empire. Sixty-three infants were born and removed from their mothers over the past twelve years. Perhaps more.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Only firsthand accounts and speculation by those involved. We are hoping to find indicators amongst the evidence we managed to collect before the outpost was destroyed by one of their own.”
“I cannot in good conscience tell Stolvoc of the possibility. The Romulans will admit to nothing.”
“But you are still a diplomat, Father. Surely you have connections, channels not even Starfleet can access. And more – you have an asset with deep knowledge of Romulan culture and politics.” The elder Spock.
His father nods. “We will discuss it further when we have more information. When will we be able to welcome our citizens to our new home?”
“We are on course for Starbase 17-” He stops, realizes he cannot give a reliable ETA since he has no idea the speed at which they are currently traveling. “I’m certain the High Council will be contacted upon our arrival, if you have not heard from me before then. Meanwhile I am sending you a list of their names so that you may begin searching for any surviving family.”
They sign off in the typical manner.
He now has four minutes before his shift begins. Not enough time to change into a fresh uniform. He passes an ionizer wand over his clothes then sits on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots.
Nyota hasn’t moved. Watches him with a grin as if she will not be late as well.
“What amuses you?”
“The captain moved the auxiliary and relief bridge crew around to cover our shifts. You’re hurrying for nothing.”
“Why was I not informed?”
“I was going to tell you when you got here. I just couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.”
He drops the boot, a childish action given that he stumbled over it already. But she’s budging over, and he wants nothing more than to stretch out next to her, so he does, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “How much did you hear of the conversation?”
“I thought he liked me.”
Most of it then. “He does. In as much as he is capable. It is my behavior that he does not like. Do not concern yourself.”
They lie in contemplative silence for three minutes and eighteen seconds.
Her breath hitches. He turns his head, questioning.
“You told him there were eighteen women,” she whispers.
Then he realizes. He had counted Perren among them.
***
The door to Jiekh’s cabin opened without his say-so. His poetry-loving security guard stepped in, moved sharply to the left and snapped to attention. It was the first time he had seen true military comportment from his guard, but he barely had time to wonder at it when another man stepped in behind him, and said, “At ease, Mr. Belanger.”
This man was young, no older than Jiekh, maybe younger. He wore a tunic of dark yellow with bands of bright gold at the cuffs. An officer then, an attractive human as well, with an air of someone not adverse to using that attractiveness for gain. But Jiekh could tell that the friendly, casual demeanor currently being projected was a guise. The same sort of guise used by interrogators hoping to induce a false sense of security.
And there was the bait, the lure – Jiekh’s confiscated tablet tucked under the man’s arm.
He wanted to shout, “I have no useful intelligence! I know nothing of reasons or motivations or schemes!” But instead, he stood stiffly in the center of the room. Waiting.
The officer had an information device in his hand and read aloud, “Jiekhus tr’Sarine?” He looked up with eyes so alarmingly blue they did not seem natural. They were not natural for Romulans.
Jiekh opened his mouth but only a raspy noise came out. He cleared his throat.
“Feel free to correct my pronunciation,” the man said. “I hate massacring a person’s name.”
“It is – it is satisfactory.”
“Great. Jiekhus tr’Sarine, I’m Captain James Kirk, commander of the starship Enterprise.”
Jiekh bowed. He did not know the proper way to address the highest commander of a Starfleet ship. Should he use the form of address for an officer of the Imperial Fleet, or the common ihhai? Fearing to offend, he kept his eyes lowered and his mouth closed.
“Belanger tells me you were hoping to get this back in one piece.” The tablet. Jiekh made no move to take it, but the captain pushed it towards him, his careful smile widening into a genuine grin. Jiekh finally took it from him, cursing the slight tremor in his hands.
“We had to scrape a few programs off it for security reasons, but most of your stuff is intact. That’s a pretty interesting game, by the way.”
“Nohthe? Yes. I - I could attempt to teach it to you.”
“If only I had the time. Thank you though. May I sit?” He pulled out the chair at the desk and sat down, not waiting for an answer.
Jiekh had an impulse to offer tea to the man, as one would a guest. But Jiekh was technically the guest here (or prisoner depending on which eye he used to view the situation). Uncertain of both proper protocol and his actual future he did not offer a beverage but chose to sit in the only other chair and wait for the interrogation to proceed.
“I understand you are requesting asylum.”
“Yes, Captain James Kirk.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“It no longer matters as I have no other choice. My – T’Maru said it was the only logical option for me. The other men know that I did not perform the duties required. They know I have asked for asylum. They will gladly kill me if given a chance. And I will be executed if I return home.”
“Yeah. I was talking to a few of your associates down in security detention earlier this morning. They have some pretty strong opinions about you.” The captain leaned forward then, his smile a tight line. “Executed for what crime?”
“Sedition. My father’s. I was tasked to pay his debt with my life. My time on Hellguard merely delayed the sentence.”
“Did you know what would be required of you on Hellguard?”
“Only in the abstract. The reality was … not something I could do.”
The captain sat back again, with a short nod. “Okay then. When we get to Starbase 17, you’ll be assigned legal representation and the asylum process will begin. You’ll be asked to give a deposition regarding Hellguard – here on the ship as well as on the Starbase. In the meantime, Belanger, or another security guard will escort you around the public areas of the ship if you so desire. The, um, visitors’ quarters are off limits, but Mr. Belanger can probably help you find anyone onboard using the comm-directory – I mean, if you need to contact somebody in particular.” The grin returned, and he rose, clasping Jeikh by the hand. “Welcome to a new life, Jiekhus tr’Sarine.”