Chapter Text
The lass from up-top was down here again even though the communications array interfaces were nowhere in the vicinity.
Ensign Uhura. Bonnie. Pure dead brilliant.
She wiggled her fingers in a wave before continuing to her target. Sadly, not him.
The other night she’d seemed so friendly and engaging. He’d been whiskey’d up enough to entertain the notion she fancied him. Turned out her interest had been strictly linguistic in nature.
Ms. Uhura could cock an ear, give half a listen, and pin any poor numpty to a place of origin – a Terraluna lilt, Andoria’s Laikan Southie hiss – the slightest deviation of syntax, or subtle morphologies you didn’t even know were there and pow! you’d be caught out trying to blend in.
“Aberdeen by way of Edinburgh. Am I right?”
Impressed, he acknowledged as much. “Aye.”
“It’s very… pronounced.”
“No reason to hide my lamp under a bushel now is there?”
“That’s lovely way to look at it. We can’t smooth all the local color from our Federation lingua franca no matter how hard we try.”
She directed his gaze to the Vulcan science officer in discussion with the scary little security chief. “Mr. Spock thinks he doesn’t have an accent. Whereas La’an doesn’t notice her own until someone points it out.”
He imagined there weren’t too many brave enough to do that more than once. Still…
“Like me then.”
“No. I don’t think so,” she laughed. The bartender placed a drink before her, and she thanked him sweetly. Turned to face Scotty with a smile that took his breath away. “Yours has intention. You lean into it like you’re testing the rest of us to see if we’re worthy.”
Whatever reaction she saw in his face, she must’ve mistook for offense because her eyes went huge.
“Oh god. Sorry, sorry. I get overanalytical when I’m tipsy.” She reached out, touched his forearm. “Don’t get me wrong. I love being tested.”
But “love” it seemed was a specific sort of affection that did not extend to his many other stellar qualities. Oh, she was personable and friendly enough, but she was like that with everyone he’d soon discovered, and if he wished for more, he’d have to work a lot harder to get her undivided attention—
“Oi! Mr. Scott,” Commander Pelia shouted from the catwalk. His old professor. Now his boss. “If you have time to gawk you clearly have too much time.”
Amazing how a tiny person with a voice like squeaky gravel could make his balls shrivel up quick like that. For someone known to use her vast age as an excuse to forget promises made yesterday, Pelia had no trouble recalling a practical joke he’d played nearly ten years ago.
“Do I need to find you something else to clean?”
“No, Chief.”
With a sigh, Scotty returned to scrubbing filters. Perhaps to save him further humiliation, Ensign Uhura skedaddled.
^^^
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Lt. Ortegas’s reaction was not unexpected. Una pushed the datapadd with the open complaint across the table. Erica scrolled through the file with stilted acuity, far too fast to grasp any details. Eyes narrowed, mouth tight, she shoved it back and proceeded to fume, arms folded across her chest. “This is bullshit.”
“You need to actually look at the complaints so we can address them.”
“What complaints? How can she have complaints? I can’t believe this! What about Bon and Shula? Have they complained?”
“Well, among Jenty’s complaints is that you single her out—”
“Bullshit!”
“Yeah, you’ve said that already. She’s the only one in her cohort who’s been ordered to retake the pilot proficiency test, is that right?”
“Not the whole test! Jesus. Just some scenarios that need work. And it wasn’t an order. A strong suggestion at most—”
“Same thing. You’re her commanding officer.”
“Look. She can’t do the math in her head, Chief. I can’t have someone in the seat who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.”
“Well, that isn’t a requirement according to Starfleet.”
“Ha, ha.”
“As long, as she can utilize and adapt the computer models fast enough—”
“I’m not sure she can.”
Una cocked an eye at her. “I’m looking at her scores right now.”
“I don’t care. Shula and Bon have both managed it. Sometimes all you’ve got is what’s in the old cabeza.” Erica tapped her temple in case Una needed a visual aid. “I expect them all to be able to do what I do. Captain relies on it.”
“Very few people can do what you do. You’re like a wizard. Every maneuver’s some crazy spell the rest of us can only hope to repeat without blowing up the ship.”
“That’s not true,” Erica said, sounding both flattered and embarrassed. “Anyway, doesn’t change the fact that in this instance I haven’t singled anyone out. I’m not trying to make anyone look bad. Why would I do that? We need good pilots more than ever now that we’re building up the fleet for exploration again.”
Una agreed, but it didn’t matter. Her job was to investigate the complaints, make an evaluation and propose a solution going forward.
She mentally braced for Erica’s reaction to the next thing she was going to say—
“I’ll be taking over the remainder of the training for this group. Until we’ve resolved the situation.”
Erica started to protest, but then sank back into her chair. “What else am I supposed to have done?”
“Berated her in front of a group of shuttle techs in the hangar bay—”
“Noooo. We were all kidding around—”
“Promoted or participated in a number of hazing events—”
“What? That’s not—”
Una held up a hand, “You’ll have a chance to respond to each complaint. We’ll go over them one by one.”
Erica pulled the chair closer, folded her hands on the table and straightened her spine. “All right then. Let’s wade through some shit.”
Unlikely we’ll find a gem in that river, Una thought.
After nearly two hours in which Erica seemed in turns confounded, and embarrassed, Una could see worrying self-doubt starting to creep in.
“Okay. I think that's enough for now," she said.
“What happens next?”
“I’ll interview Lieutenants Shula and Bon, talk to other witnesses.”
Ordinarily investigations were La’an’s purview, but Una was hesitant to bring her in. This wasn’t a security issue, but a personnel issue. Personnel was, unfortunately for her, the first officer’s department.
She flagged the list on her datapadd and it pinged on Erica’s. “You shouldn’t interact with any of these crew until I’ve completed their interviews.”
“Sure. Right.”
All the feisty had gone out of her friend, it appeared. Something was off about this whole business.
“I need to ask you something.”
Erica glanced up from the list of people she wasn’t supposed to talk to. Gave shrug of acquiescence.
“Did you have a relative on the guide ship for that fleet of automated freighters? The one that Lt. Jenty's grandfather supposedly destroyed with friendly fire.”
“No,” Erica said. “I mean it’s weird. Like, that whole thing about me having a vendetta against her? Completely out the blue. I told her she was loco.” She huffed a sour laugh. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, huh? But honestly, I had no idea her grandpa was that guy until she told me.”
“I believe you. I just wonder where she got her information.”
“You think somebody else is involved?”
“Well,” Una said, slapping her thighs decisively, “that’s for me to find out and for you to keep your nose squeaky clean in the meantime.”
^^^
Christine only noticed the nervous jouncing of her right leg because the Andorian next to her seemed irritated by it. She scootched sideways on the bench and proceeded to worry a thumbnail between her teeth instead.
How bad would it be if she missed her connection to Starbase 11? She wasn’t technically in Starfleet. Worst that could happen, they’d terminate her contract. Roger had offered her a long-term position on his upcoming field expedition. Stanford Morehouse was sponsoring said expedition, so they’d probably be fine with it. It was for Roger Korby after all. Who could say no to him? He was very persuasive. Compelling.
Even so, the expedition was a year away at least. He already had Brownie to assist with the preliminary planning and a couple of TAs for his other responsibilities. What would she do with herself in the interim?
The butterflies in her belly turned into velociraptors.
Face it, Christine. Only one reason you’re thinking about making a run for it—
After the Gorn attacks, with everyone still reeling from losses and marveling at their own survival, Spock had appeared at the door of her cabin. A bare room now, a temporary berth for another temporary contractor. Even the bedding was gone.
Whatever apology she thought he’d come to offer didn’t happen. He just… pushed into her. Into the physical space, her personal space, her psyche, her body. She wanted not to think, so she let him. It was a relief really. To give up control, let him pin her against the wall and fuck the fear right out of her.
Waking up alone in an empty room was the first clue to a shift in their dynamic.
“Love sucks,” she muttered.
The Andorian gave a strangled cry, half-rising from the bench, and for a second Christine thought they’d found her view on love an outrage – No, love is grand! It’s you humans that suck at it. Then she saw the actual cause of the reaction.
Running, stumbling, wheeling round the open space in front of them, was a barefoot person trying to wrestle some kind of hood off their head. Muffled inarticulate shrieks came from beneath the hood.
Worried exclamations from witnesses punctuated the low ambient rumble of activity on the concourse as travelers darted out of the way, pushed their children behind them. Some stood frozen, gaping.
On her feet now, body buzzing with an influx of adrenaline, Christine looked around for who or what the hooded person was fleeing. Kidnappers? Port security?
Hospital orderlies?
The hood wasn’t exactly a hood, not like a sack thrown over the head. More like a soft helmet, with the impression of eyepieces and an O-shape where a mouth might be. It reminded her of something she’d seen used to treat conditions like PTSD. It was supposed to block external sensory input. Some of the devices used species-specific pulses of light, while others generated brown noise and high beta wave isochronic tones. But that was in a controlled setting. With supervision.
Maybe there was something wrong with the device. The poor being could be suffocating in there for all she knew.
She moved in closer, ignoring cries of “Careful!” and “Watch out!” as she dodged frantic, reeling limbs, making what she hoped were soothing sounds.
Christine had worked with traumatized beings before. She knew better than to touch someone who wasn’t (or in this case, couldn’t ) anticipate it. Hands out, ready to push or grab as needed, she waved her arms around to displace the air, inching closer to determine if the other could sense her proximity.
Security drones darted in above them. A swiftly moving commotion on the concourse at her back suggested someone in authority was aware of the situation at least.
Suddenly the person stiffened, convulsed, and a scant second later dropped to the floor, legs askew like a floppy rag doll. A second later they began to rock and grunt softly. Christine stepped closer, went down on her haunches, reaching tentatively for a mechanism at the side of the hood—
“No!” came the shout. “Do not touch her.”
A Vulcan woman hurried towards her with two more following behind. They were visibly distressed which was, in and of itself, distressing.
Hands up, Christine rose and backed away. The woman went to her knees beside the person in the hood and brushed her fingers across a clenched fist. After a moment the fist uncurled, clasping the offered hand, then fell against her savior (or possibly captor). On the other side of her, another woman was making quick work of the mechanism to remove the hood. But before the Christine got more than a flashing glance of the girl’s features, the third woman swooped in and threw a blanket over the girl so she was once again hidden, covered from head to the tips of her fingers.
Protests rose from the gathered crowd.
“What’s going on? Why’d she run from you?”
“Why don’t you want anyone to see her, huh?”
The Vulcan women ignored it, keeping tight hold of the girl’s hands as they got her to her feet. Bare feet, Christine noted again, but not dirty enough to have been bare long. They began to walk with her in the direction of the boarding gates.
“Hey! Where are you taking her?”
“Don’t let them get away. Security’s coming—”
“Please. Let us pass. We must return to our vessel—"
“You’re not taking that girl anywhere.”
“Probably traffickers,” her Andorian bench mate muttered, gathering up their belongings. Apparently, their flight was being called for boarding.
The rough buzzing of her boarding pass in her shirt pocket made her realize, oh shit, so was hers!
By now five security officers were approaching, fingertips on the weapons at their hips as they looked around, assessing threat levels. Concerned citizens started talking all at once.
Christine looped her backpack over her shoulder. She was going to have to scramble to make the flight if she didn’t get going soon. But she felt compelled to keep watching, unaccountably anxious as one of the officers grabbed at the blanket. The collectively held breaths of people watching was almost comical. But the girl herself had managed to withdraw her hands from her handlers and held tight to the blanket from the the inside. She emitted a squeal when he tried again - an unpleasant, raw, animal sound.
It was like everyone seemed to realize at the same time - there was something not quite right about the Vulcan girl under the blanket. Then it was all collective discomfort, thick silence cut with audible gulping and throat clearing.
Christine had to rush off before the situation was entirely sorted, but it did appear that one of the women – the one who’d yelled at her not to touch – was the girl’s mother.
As she walked across the loading bridge to board the S.S. Lady Galene, thoughts of the girl and her mother got pushed to the background. The Enterprise and all that awaited her there moved to the forefront.
Any idea of abandoning the crew dissipated. She missed everyone so much, more than she expected. Missed the comradery, the exploration and scientific discoveries, the opportunities to experience things new and exciting. Sometimes terrifying.
Truth be told, she really missed all those heightened adrenal responses. Something she’d have to admit to her therapist sooner or later.
Despite all that went down with her and Spock, she missed him too. But Vulcan-the-World had hurt her feelings more profoundly, ridiculous as that seemed. Being bombarded with poop balloons would do that to a person. It was not a story she planned to share anytime soon. Or ever. Oh, she’d get over it eventually. Meditation helped. That was a good thing to come out of her relationship with Spock.
Once she was aboard and had stowed her gear, she went to the bar to settle in with a glass of wine and datapadd of research to organize for the team. But her mind kept circling back to that brief glimpse of the Vulcan girl’s face – high forehead, ears too pointy, eyes too wide set – something about the features suggested a phenotypic manifestation she’d read about in medical texts attached to DNA microarrays in the archives.
She scrolled through her files looking for those notes. And… bingo.
There were three conditions, all neurodevelopmental disorders, though one of the more archaic microarrays had no accompanying files – corrupted ages ago, apparently. Looked like the most interesting one too, damn it, with a flagged mutation in a chromosome unique to Vulcans, and another flag on an autosome analogous to chromosome 15 in humans.
So… a kind of autism maybe?
In the Vulcan population, neurodevelopmental disorders had decreased significantly over the centuries, attributed to lifestyle changes, improved environmental conditions and the philosophical practices that had altered their brain chemistry. All touted as a triumph and a testament to a society risen from the ashes of violent conflict and nuclear warfare.
Roger Korby suspected they were systematically breeding neurodivergence out of the genome altogether (perhaps unintentionally) and argued this was not a good thing. He theorized that many higher-reasoning species may have survived and even evolved from near extinction events due to a broader range of neurodivergence across the spectrum. He believed the medical records he’d translated from the excavations on Orion supported the theory – at least for that species. His colleague at the VMI, Dr. Nivol, agreed and posited that allowing neurodiversity to be excised from the genome if it did not appear harmonious with Surak’s guiding principles could lead to genetic disaster in a few thousand years.
Spock told her he’d been dyslexic as a child. Dyslexia was a condition caused by a gene change in chromosome 15. They’d probably blamed his poor human mother, but looked like it was just as likely to come from his dad.
Damn it! She was thinking about Spock again.
Christine tucked the padd in her bag, finished her wine and ordered another. Spent the next couple of hours flirting with a pair of musicians who were touring the galaxy by way of the S.S. Lady Galene’s house band. When she got back to her berth she fell into the bunk, and didn’t get out of it much until they made port at Starbase 11.
^^^
Eyes closed, face turned toward the light, Sybok sat in the losherok pose, raking his fingers lightly through the soft sand.
Half-lotus was the word Amanda Grayson used for the pose. Or… crisscross applesauce. She’d once been a teacher of small human children. Nonsense rhymes encouraged order, she claimed.
Criss-Cross Applesauce, give your hands a clap.
The sand had been imported from the eastern coast of the Voroth Sea and laid upon this moon like a blanket. His fingertips remembered this sand. The first holiday he’d ever experienced. A Human woman and a Vulcan child. The looks they got. Her belly round with his brother. His father blessedly absent.
She’d been wearing something blue-green, diaphanous, wind whipping it about. He’d come running up to her and the wind blew the fabric over his face, which made her laugh. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stop the sound, but her eyes were still laughing. He didn’t know eyes could do that.
How he missed that woman.
In truth, Omicron Lyrae III, the little moon that housed Ankeshtan K’til, had no atmosphere to speak of, and everything he felt that was not sand – warmth, light, weight, peace – was manufactured. A fragile troposphere held in place by sacred geometry, collective excitations of particles and a layer of solid light the width of a hair.
Only one way out or in.
The inmate population could only be transported off the moon via matter converters beamed to or from a small station in low orbit. The ships that brought them to the facility docked there and when they were declared fit to return to society, would also take them away.
Unlike most people confined to the facility, he had not been given a choice. His father's doing he suspected, though Sybok’s true identity was known by few here. T’Pring had never questioned his alias. She'd been a child when last she saw him. And he supposed it hardly mattered to her mission to reform illogical sinners.
Sybok would have far preferred a Federation prison where his own calling could be of use, where he could take away the suffering of those sorry, damaged souls and lead them to God.
Also, his Angel had certain… connections. He would not have been in Federation prison long—
A sudden disturbance in his mental periphery had him grudgingly opening his eyes. Someone was trying to get his attention without calling attention. A new “patient.”
Though, apparently, they were not new to each other.
Criss-Cross Applesauce
Quiet as can be.
Criss-Cross Applesauce
Eyes on me.