Chapter Text
Erica’s martial art of choice was tai chi. Officers were required to be proficient in at least one and tai chi had seemed the least martial. Technically you could kick-ass if you wanted to, but… eh, nah.
Tai chi calmed the mind and improved focus, allowed her to be at one with the Enterprise the way the captain sometimes waxed poetical about being one with his horse. The horse had to trust you, you had to trust the horse. That was her and the ship. Same principle. Harmonious. Symbiotic. Etcetera.
But why anyone would want to spend precious off hours punching stuff and kickboxing and getting all sweaty doing jiu jitsu or whatever was beyond her. What was wrong with a nice swim? A little salsa dancing?
She pulled the ends of the towel over her shoulders, leaned against the bulkhead, and slid down to plant her butt on the deck. Dangled a bottle of cool water over the ledge of her knees and watched La’an take down a six-four, 230lb petty officer named Glenn for, like, the fourth or fifth time.
They were “sparring.” For “fun.” La’an might even have been pulling her punches a bit. Erica bet studly Glenn was questioning all his life choices right about now.
The mock battle, the tests of honor in the face of an enemy, trying to get somebody’s hackles up so you can take them down – it just bothered her. Why pretend to fight? Hadn’t they all had enough of the real thing? She sure had. The need for pay-back had nearly sucked the soul right out of her once.
Which is why she’d been so stunned when Lt. Jenty accused her of it—
“Ever since you found out about my grandfather you’ve had a vendetta against me.”
And she’d stood there, mouth hanging open probably, brain stuck on an error code. Vendetta was a real strong word.
On a starship every bridge officer, no matter what station they worked, needed to be able to man the helm in a pinch. But pilot was a specialized position. Only a highly skilled pilot could do the hard stuff, the delicate stuff, the dangerous-as-fuck stuff and still get everyone out alive.
Lt. Jenty was one of three people Erica was training as relief pilots. All of them had areas that needed polish, but Jenty relied on the computer’s predictive modelling way too much, had seemed reluctant to do any of the math in her head. Erica could not in good conscience put any pilot on any shift who couldn’t do a bit of linear algebra and differential calculus on the fly. She knew better than anyone there’d be times when some program or system went kablooey, and suddenly your captain’s asking you to predict the future and, in the same breath, demanding you change it.
But other than requiring Jenty to do another two weeks in the simulator for randomly generated scenarios, she couldn’t think of anything she’d done that came near vendetta territory. She wouldn’t even have known Jenty’s grandpa was the guy who accidentally blew up a small flotilla of supply ships headed to the front if Jenty herself hadn’t said, “I guess you know who my grandfather is then,” prompting Erica to ask, “No. Who?”
A pilot had to be flexible but consistent, always ready but never jump the gun, brilliant but not easily bored. It wasn’t for everyone. It might not be for Xenta Jenty—
“Lt. Ortegas, please report to the XO’s office.”
She scrambled to her feet, hit the intercom. “Ortegas here. I’m in the gym. Can I get twenty minutes?”
“Acknowledged,” came the clipped reply. “Twenty minutes.”
Huh. Maybe they pushed up the ETA for Starbase 11. Or pushed it back. She kind of hoped not. It felt like forever since she’d seen Christine and it sure would be sad if she missed her ride back to the Enterprise.
^^^
A very small sample size had formed Christine’s initial impressions of Vulcan people. She quickly realized those impressions were based on a lot of assumptions.
Saf had to clue her in about the flirty girl at the pharmacy.
“How was that flirting?”
“She asked many questions of you.”
“Um, yeah. Felt more like an interrogation. ‘What genetic mutation produces that eye color? Is the lack of pigment in your hair natural or did you remove it for cosmetic purposes? Is this man your guide or your companionnn...ohh.’”
As a fellow “fellow” on the research team, Safeek had, in fact, been a gracious guide and interpreter of all things Vulcan. And though she wouldn’t have been opposed to more of his company because he was quite pretty, turned out he already had a companion.
That second night in ShiKahr, Dr. Korby – Roger – had a meeting with Dr. Nivol, chief administrator for the genetic archives. He suggested the team take a few hours down time. “I’d recommend napping because we’re in for a very long night, but you’re all too young to heed that advice.”
So Saf took her and Brownie and Rachana to a “standing restaurant” in Ha’gelek Street. The restaurant looked an awful lot like a food truck except you had to stand at a bar to eat your food because unlike some places in the galaxy (Earth), people did not stroll the streets of ShiKahr eating burritos (or in this case, spongy bread stuffed with curried peas).
After, they met up with his life partner Salek at a teahouse where the tea was mostly various kinds of imported spirits. Every place that served only beverages was called a teahouse, even the places that served coffee to mostly human tourists. For a people that valued precision it seemed a bit lazy. Which, apparently, she said out loud.
“You can order tea here if that is what you wish,” Saf pointed out.
“Nope. That’s okay. I’ll shut up now.” She put her lips around the straw in a melon daiquiri and did just that.
They listened politely to live acoustic music, chatting between sets and somehow the story of being flirted with at the pharmacy came up – something about subverting stereotypes. She mentioned how she’d thought Spock, the Vulcan guy she worked with, had been pretty forthcoming with her about his culture, but now she realized maybe that wasn’t true.
“Most of us were not raised in such rarefied air as that of the S’chn T’Gai clan,” Salek said.
She blinked. “Who they?”
Saf gave his boyfriend a subtle side-eye, but Salek leaned into the universal invitation to gossip.
“They are Spock’s family clan.”
“Wait. Do you know Spock?”
“I know of him.”
“Most Vulcans have knowledge of S’chn T’Gai Spock,” Saf clarified.
Salek elaborated, “He was born into an old family, notable, with a storied history and much influence. Their line goes back to Surak himself. Humans might think of his clan as… traditionalist, I suppose. Or socially conversative.”
“But his father married a human being!” A few heads turned. She dropped her voice to a very loud whisper. “I’ve seen her.”
“Perhaps you apply a human concept of conservatism,” Saf said. “In Sarek’s case, marriage to a Human might have been considered a logical sacrifice by the clan for one in the position of Ambassador to Earth.”
Oh, right. His dad was the ambassador. Spock came from privilege.
She saw no judgment in Saf’s observation, but she got the impression he found nothing there to admire either. He seemed to want the subject dismissed, but Salek’s interest had piqued and he wasn’t about to let it go.
“What is the son like then? Is he the rebel we’ve heard told?”
Rachana’s lips turned up in the vaguest of sneers. “He’s in Starfleet. How rebellious can he be?” She’d expressed very strong opinions about the continued post-war militarism of Starfleet as soon as she heard Christine had a contract with them.
True, Spock could quote regulations for any situation but he could also break them if he thought it ethically necessary. Rachana had no idea what an act of rebellion just joining Starfleet had been for him. Spock had chosen Star Fleet in defiance of his father and his family’s cultural traditions.
He’d chosen her.
And she chose this.
“The Spock I know is a really good guy,” she said, tender and protective all the sudden. “If he was born into privilege, you wouldn’t know it working with him.”
Saf picked up a tiny cup of… sake, maybe, and sipped. He flicked a glance at Salek, said carefully, “I believe you are thinking of the other son of Sarek, t’hy’la.”
“Oh yes. That one. Rejected the path of logic if I recall. Fled the planet to avoid arrest.”
Rejected the path of logic. Christine knew something about this. She even knew about Spock’s brother. Sort of. And then there was that asshat Barjan—
Brownie barked out a laugh, “Well, damn. You Vulcans don’t mess around. I’m surprised you cater to so many of our human vices.” He tossed back a shot.
“Wait. Wait wait wait.” Rachana held a finger up, the grown-up version of raising her hand in class, then asked in a voice squeaky with alcohol fueled self-righteousness. “Are you saying it’s a crime to be illogical?”
“No,” Salek replied. “Merely in bad taste.”
“Was he v’tosh ka’tur?”
Both of the Vulcan men looked at Christine as if she’d grown a new, more interesting head.
“It is not a crime to reject the path of logic,” Saf explained, “nor is it a crime to express logic extremist viewpoints, or to preach Tu-Jarok in the streets. However, if one commits a criminal act in the name of one’s beliefs then one can expect arrest, prosecution and penalty as the logical outcomes.”
“What crime did the brother commit?” Rachana asked.
Saf demurred, “I cannot say with certainty.”
But Salek had no such restraints and said sotto voce. “A crime no human could commit.”
At which point Saf decided his boyfriend had imbibed enough of whatever they were drinking (which she found out later was not sake), and they closed out the party portion of the night. Salek went home and the rest of them headed back to the research annex.
Tri-ox injections and alcohol were not the best mix, the humans soon realized. Brownie bemoaned leaving his jacket in the lab.
The night air was the kind of hot Vulcans called “cool” and humans found not-quite hellish. Rachana swiped a hand across a sweaty brow and pointed out that he didn’t need a jacket.
“It has detoxy tabs in the pocket,” he said.
At some point during the evening, Christine had removed the long-sleeved UPF 50 shirt she’d worn over her dress and now had it tied around her waist. Shoulders bare, sweating around the middle, she stepped into the softly lit haven of the transit enclosure with a sigh of relief. Soon they’d be in a temperature-controlled lab taking the cure with a cool glass of water—
“Komee reetevaan!” came a shout from behind her. A hard wet splat hit between her shoulder blades. She stumbled, turned to see what the hell—
Saf pulled her out of the way of another projectile aimed at her head. It burst against the side of the structure and slid down to the pavement. A moment later, he caught sight of someone darting around the curve of a building across the street and sprinted after them.
Brownie tried to follow but only got a few steps before the air and the heat proved daunting. Hands on his knees, panting, he muttered something about Roger tearing him a new one. Two Vulcan women approached to ask if Christine was injured. One had a comm open to the authorities.
But she could only stare stupidly at them, her brain stuck in a cognitive void. Rachana touched her arm and she shook her head, heard her own voice like it was coming out of someone else’s mouth, “I’m all right. Thank you.”
Rachana had begun to look around. The rusty colored glop spattered the platform, smeared the side of the structure. “Oh my god. Is that what I think it is?”
“It appears to be animal feces,” one of the women said. Her companion’s nose wrinkled discreetly as the odor started wafting up.
Chrstine pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming expletives
Feces. Somebody threw shit at her. It was on her back, on her dress.
She strained to see the proof, turning frantically round and round like a dog trying to bite its own tail, trying to confirm this impossible horrible thing, until Rachana’s voice broke through the buzz, grasped her upper arm and made her stop. “Christine. Christine. It’s okay, it’s okay, honey. It’s mostly on your dress. The hotel’s close by. We’ll get you cleaned up, okay? It’s all right.”
She nodded. Took a deep breath. Big mistake. Took a shallow breath. Better. A few more of those until the shudders were intermittent rather than constant. But someone else’s judgment of her was still there, on her back, where everyone else could see it. The two Vulcan women for instance.
“It appears the assailant put the fecal material into sov-dukal in order to throw it effectively,” the older one said. “There are the remains.”
Christine’s gaze followed the gesture to the shreds of blue and green pasted to the transparent material of the transit enclosure by excrement. There were more pieces on the platform near her feet.
Balloons. She stepped warily around the mess, then twisted her hands together, her eyes unable to settle, trying not to cry.
By the time Saf returned she’d gone from unwarranted shame to quietly furious. Saf suggested Rachana escort her to the hotel while he and the other witnesses waited for the authorities.
Later, back in the lab, showered, dressed and all cried out, Christine assured everyone she was fine. She just wanted to get back to work. She got out her notes, but Roger drew her aside,
“I’m so sorry, Christine. Safeek told me what the man shouted at you—”
Her mouth went dry, her heart sped up. “What? What was it? What did he say?”
“A racial slur of some sort. Nonsense about indecency or corruption. I doubt you were being targeted personally. Not that it helps much.”
It sure felt personal. Humiliating. Crushing. Almost like a betrayal. Like someone should have warned her this could happen. In a culture devoted to a philosophy of peace through logic, not only could individuals be complete jerks they could also be cruel and vicious.
But Spock had warned her she supposed. He’d shown he could be petty, rageful, possessive. She’d seen it and foolishly insisted its source was his human side.
She took a deep breath, put on her game face. “I’m sure I’ll forget all about it once we’re knee deep in ancient DNA microarrays.”
No sooner had she made this plucky assertion then someone from law enforcement showed up to take statements – Primary Officer Irek, a woman whose hair and uniform were almost the same shade of gray.
The whole time they were being interviewed, Christine kept shooting glances at Roger, trying to gauge his mood, feeling guiltier with each minute that ticked by. They were behind and getting more so. But he seemed only concerned then relieved when Officer Irek told them the guy responsible had already been arrested.
“Though this person is currently confined for the public’s welfare, I have been authorized to provide additional security if you have concerns for your personal safety during the remainder of your stay in Shikahr.”
Wow. That sounded almost like an official apology. Christine opened her mouth to refuse but Roger did it for her.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you, Officer. I doubt any of us will be venturing beyond these walls for the next forty-two hours. We have much work to catch up on before Dr. Nivol kicks us interlopers out of his labs.”
They found out later that someone in the city’s administration office had arranged for their hotel rooms to be comped. Which was nice, she supposed, even though they barely got to use them.
^^^
Chu’lak sat meditating in the confinement cell, a show of contrition for the V’Kor officers observing through the surveillance devices in his cell.
When interviewed, his brother Teska suggested to police that logic extremists had targeted a Chu’lak, grooming him for further acts of terrorism. He could almost hear Teska saying, “My brother is young, impressionable, without a father’s guidance.”
Tomorrow when Chu’lak went before the adjudicator, he would present himself as the perfect candidate for rehabilitation at Ankeshtan K’till on Omicron Lyrae III. If all went to plan, he should be there within the week.
It would take a little persuading to convince Sybok of the righteousness of their cause, but Chu’lak knew him well enough to think it possible. Sybok was probably the only one who could control the Blessing once she was primed and aimed at their targets.
The priest had moved her again, spirited her away, trying to keep her out of reach. But this time they knew where he was headed.