Chapter Text
On Vulcan, you could always spot a first-time visitor by their bullet-shade hat – a cap with a kind of halo thing from which descended a darkened screen that covered the whole head and face right down to the shoulders. This ubiquitous headwear combined with full-length “cooling caftans” absolutely screamed tourist.
Christine Chapel would not be going about the great city of Shikahr dressed like that. There were plenty of kiosks in the 40EAX terminal that offered nothing but sunscreen sprays, wraparound sunglasses, and large brimmed hats. Her current sunglasses were not as cute as the ones she’d left in a Terra-Luna Spaceport bar, but the hat looked quite jaunty.
Unfortunately, as soon as she stepped off the intercity shuttle near the Vulcan Medical Institute the jaunty hat blew off in a breeze so searing it felt like a stripe of fire burned across her cheek.
Note to self: pasty white human girls should be more circumspect on planets with thermostats set to HELL.
She tugged the sleeves of her shirt down over her knuckles and hurried towards the north entrance where the research medical labs supposedly were. And where Dr. Korby – Roger – said he’d be waiting with the rest of the team.
^^^
Bibi was not pleased. She’d delayed the second funeral for five whole years. The most recent delay was so that her granddaughter could finish her midshipman assignment as a cadet only to discover (after the fact) that Nyota had received a graduating commission via subspace, thus denying her all the bragging rights and photo ops afforded a grandmother via pomp and circumstance.
“I’m so sorry, Bibi. There was just so much going on and they needed me right away. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. I didn’t even think—” she broke off, unable to meet her grandmother’s eyes even with the barrier of distance through the terminal’s screen.
“I served in Starfleet. I know how it works. I also know you could arrange time for a funeral.”
A second funeral, Nyota wanted to say. The happy funeral. Lots of favorite foods, joyful memories, singing and laughing. She should be open to that by now, shouldn’t she?
“Do we really need to though? I mean, isn’t it better to honor their lives by getting out there, making discoveries, exploring the universe?”
“Grief is not bound by the laws of physics, baby.”
Ugh. No matter how far she went or where she ended up, grief would be stowed with her gear. Intellectually, she knew this. Emotionally? Well, that’s what second funerals were for.
“Okay, okay. Fine. But I might only be able to give you a few days warning, so you and the aunties will have to move a lot faster than you normally do to plan it.”
“Now you’re a comedian.”
“I love you, Bibi.”
“Love you too, darling girl.”
^^^
It always seemed to work out that when La’an had an early counselling session with Dr. Sanchez, Captain Pike would just happen to be holding the morning staff briefing in his quarters – with French toast and scrambled eggs.
Una would douse her eggs with hot sauce. Joseph would drink way too much coffee with real actual cream, Pelia would mention something like how she used to whisk eggs with bundle of twigs, and Spock would eat melon while surreptitiously eyeing the bacon Erica shoveled in her gob.
This morning, instead of maple syrup, La’an buttered the thick slices of custard-y brioche then hit it with dollops of strawberry jam. It tasted weirdly of nostalgia, though her family didn’t eat anything like this for breakfast back when they were squabbling happily at a breakfast table.
Maybe she was pre-gaming her nostalgia. Someday in the future, whilst eating French toast and scrambled eggs, she will think how they don’t taste as good as Pike’s did and fondly ache for these days, with these people, this comradery, this community, their shared purpose, and mission.
It was a strategy that almost assumed she’d live long enough to think back fondly on anything. So… progress? She’d ask Dr. Sanchez next time.
Captain Pike took off the apron and picked up his coffee mug with a sigh of satisfaction. That was the cue for each department to report.
Una gave a summary of the Enterprise’s scheduled travel, assignments, and missions. She looked at her padd a moment too long, glanced at the captain. “There are some personnel situations I need to go over when we one-on-one later. Obviously, Commander Pelia is not in attendance, but she’s sent a report showing all systems green-ish. Her word, not mine. Lt. Spock, you’re up.”
As Spock began quietly enthusing about a fascinating reflection nebula and spacetime anomalies, La’an took the opportunity to observe another kind of anomaly– Erica Ortegas absently poking her fork at a fluff of eggs left on her plate. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped. Lost in a dreary thought. Erica, who didn’t really do dreary. She gave a mild start when the captain called her name the second time, straightened her spine.
“My stations are good to go, Captain. I, uh, I would recommend Lt. Jenty do a couple more supervised stints in the driver’s seat before taking over gamma shift.”
La’an saw Una’s features go utterly still a fraction of second. Then she blinked and nodded. La’an made a mental note to ask about it later. Any small conflict between the crew could be a security risk down the line.
Joseph reported that he’d notified the health authorities at Beta Orgona that Ensign Kriika did not have choriocytosis. “Which is what I told them the entire time they were holding the poor being in stasis.” Off Spock’s raised eyebrow, he added, “You weren’t in any danger. But, yes, to answer the question you aren’t asking, that is why I gave you cuprum hemoglobin boosters.”
Apparently chorio-whatever affected Vulcans in a serious way.
“When’s your favorite head nurse getting back?” Pike asked. He was asking M’Benga but Spock’s entire body seemed to clench. Everyone pretended not to notice.
“Last I heard, Dr. Korby had gotten privileges to use the genetic research archives at the Vulcan Medical Institute. Christine was disappointed they were only allowed three days.”
La’an couldn’t think of anything more stultifying than looking at a bunch genes with a bunch of Vulcans hovering over you,
Una messed with the screen of her datapadd. “Well, she’s supposed to be at Starbase 11 in five days if she wants to catch the shuttle bringing our shiny new crew.”
Seven of their current crew had rotated out on this layover. La’an had already reviewed the new batch. “Security systems, weapons systems, all at the ready should they be required, Captain.”
Pike started the cleanup, signaling the end of that morning’s briefing. She picked up her plate and utensils, brushed at the crumbs with her napkin—
“Uhura to Captain Pike.”
“Go ahead, Ensign.”
“Is Mr. Spock still there? I have a private subspace transmission from a secure channel. I think it’s the Vulcan Embassy’s own transmit array?”
Momentarily taken aback, Spock glanced at the captain. “With your permission, sir?”
“Go.”
“Route the transmission to the terminal in my quarters, Ensign,” Spock said on his way out the door.
Erica caught the damp dishcloth Pike threw her way. “Well, that’s one way to get out of KP duty.”
^^^
His mother appeared to be traveling alone – or more accurately, traveling without his father. Spock had no doubt a security detail lurked in the background. Their family hadn’t traveled without one since the attempt on their lives when he was six years old.
He could see vague details of the hotel room behind her. Her gloves lay on the desk to her left. A chubby wine glass of full-bodied red on her right. She clearly meant business.
“What has happened, Mother?”
“Can’t a mother spontaneously contact her son simply to see how he’s doing?”
“She can. But I suspect that is not why you have used embassy communications privilege to contact me.”
She removed the filmy scarf hiding her hair and flung it behind her. It floated over her shoulder a moment before falling out of sight.
“I have taken my discordant human anger on a holiday.”
She’d taken such breaks before when he was young, sudden departures, infrequent but troubling to his child’s mind. Even Michael, who had assured him their mother simply needed time “to be human,” admitted later, she, like him, worried Amanda wouldn’t come back. He hadn’t understood why his mother needed to absent herself from her family to be what she already was.
As an adult with an adult’s perspective on what she’d willingly endured for the love of her family he understood it better.
That being said…
“On Argelius II?” Spock was not exactly sure of the time of day there, but he suspected it was too early to be drinking wine. Even on Argelius II. “That seems…”
“What?” Her features were perfectly composed, well-trained in dispassionate regard as she was, but the sharp edge in her tone gave her away.
“A very pointed choice on your part,” he finished carefully.
Argelius had a reputation for hedonism. A culture devoted to love in all its many forms. Popular for shore leave. Unfrequented by Vulcans.
She took a sip of wine. “They don’t call it Argelius II, you know. The people who live here.”
“I am aware.”
“It’s called Nelphia.”
“Yes. I know.” He did not have time for this.
“’Welcome to Nelphia,’” she said, flourishing her glass. “’Visit the fallen city of Terlip in the holy mountains of Nelphia, enjoy your stay on our beautiful world Nelphia, named for Nelphia, goddess and animating force of all things Nelphian.’ And yet…” Another more substantial swallow of wine, “Nelphia is not the name listed on Federation planetary star charts. This suggests a certain colonial primacy in Federation naming conventions, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Did you call merely to deliver a lecture from the paper you published on this subject ten years ago?”
She set the glass down carefully. Gave him a withering look.
“Have you spoken with T’Pring lately?”
“After my last attempt she made it clear she is not yet ready to resume our communications.”
“Perhaps she’s become aware of the rumors you’ve ‘taken up’ with a human.”
The phrase between her air quotes caused an unpleasant sensation in his gut. It made the relationship he’d had with Christine sound tawdry. His stilted effort to formulate a response to the rumors only seemed to verify his mother’s worst fears.
“Spock. Please, please tell me that’s not the reason T’Pring—”
“Of course not. I never betrayed her trust or our commitment.”
Which was technically fact. T’Pring had accused him of not trusting her. And after much consideration (made possible by Christine’s absence) he could freely admit she’d been right.
His mother's countenance softened in relief. “That’s what I told your father after T’Pril blindsided him with the accusation.”
T’Pring’s mother knew? How? He’d intended to tell T’Pring about Christine, face-to-face, when she gave him the opportunity. But then Christine broke it off and…
“Apparently, the whole disaster is my fault now.”
“T’Pril blames you?” It was hardly surprising. To her, Amanda Grayson was the human vector for everything currently wrong with Vulcan society.
Amanda, his honorable, good, kind mother, picked up the glass and stared into the wine as she swirled it around, “I’m talking about your father.”
The sudden tightness in his chest was a warning, one Spock had learned to heed in his teen years as confrontations with Sarek increased. He suppressed the churn of rage but held fast to the cause of it. He knew precisely how his father would have cast the blame on his mother.
Not directly. Never directly. A thousand small cuts, sideways. Like a seasoned diplomat.
“He should have been there himself if it was so important to him--”
“The two of you exhaust me,” she muttered into the glass, then tipped it back and gulped down all the wine in it.
They considered each other in silence. She leaned her elbow on the desk and cradled her cheek in her hand, eyeing him with the tenderest exasperation.
“What are you doing about your engagement, Spock? Is it over? Because no one seems to know. You’re headed out to deep space god-knows-where. T’Pring has returned to El-Keshtanktil and resumed her virtuous work. I’ve tried reaching out, but— but her mother is hinting at dissolution and breach of contract.”
“It is not a dissolution. We are taking time apart.”
“I’m very fond of T’Pring, you know.”
“She’s fond of you as well.”
“I would have liked to call her daughter.” She met his eyes and quickly looked away, thinking of the other daughter they couldn’t speak of.
His mother must be so lonely now.
“You may yet,” he said. “However, until she’s ready to speak with me I cannot promise my return to her good graces.”
“Do you want to?” At his sudden unease, she hastened to assure him, “It’s okay if you don’t.”
He’d waffled after the recent experience with the Gorn. Turned to Christine again until apologies and forgiveness became a constant yearning for something she didn’t have or couldn’t give. Perhaps no human could.
This indulgence in human emotions had been just that, a gross indulgence. An experiment rife with biases, but ultimately proved to be a test of his commitment to the path of logic. He would, from this moment forward, commit fully to that path.
T’Pring was the person whose opinion he should have valued above all others.
Except the woman looking through a screen at him from a hotel room on Nelphia.
“I want to marry T’Pring. If she will have me again.”
“Okay,” she said softly.
“I must return to my duties now, Mother.”
“Thank you for setting my mind at ease. Stay safe. Be well.”
“I will endeavor to do so. Please do not drink more wine.”
“Pfft,” she said with a smile and dismissive wave.
The screen went dark. He went to the bridge.
^^^
The children were off to work in their official capacities as senior officers. Christopher Pike and Una Chin-Riley (sometimes referred to as Dad and Mom, though not to their faces) sat across from each other – Una in the club chair and Pike leaning back at one end of the sofa, ankles crossed, cup of coffee in hand.
“What was that all about, y’think?”
Una looked up from her padd, brow furrowed, not a clue.
“Spock? Secure channel? Vulcan embassy?”
“Oh. That was his mother. She got in touch with me a few days ago to arrange it.”
“Vulcans certainly have a lot of family drama for a people who value logic.”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay.” Chris said, leaning forward. “What the hell is up?”
Caught out, Una sighed and set the datapadd on the low coffee table between them. “That personnel situation we need to discuss.”
“Is it going to make me mad, sad, or glad?”
“I’ve received a workplace harassment complaint. Against Lt Ortegas.”
He shook his head, blinked. “Erica?”
“Not sexual harassment, Chris. Calm yourself. But we’re deep in Appendix D-1 section-c territory.”
“But, I mean, what the actual fuck? Erica? Erica?”
It boggled the mind. People begged for training with Ortegas. Sure, he knew nobody got along with everybody, personalities clashed, command styles butted heads, but—
“Who filed the complaint?”
“Lt. Xenta Jenty.”