A Guiding Star

by BC_Brynn

Summary:

My name is S’chn T’gai Spock, and I am six years old. At the age of twenty-nine, I have been involved in an accident that has reduced my physical age and erased my memories accordingly.

Notes:

I’m alive! Wow. Blame weddings and wine for me reporting that I haven’t bit the dust yet. I think I’ve become an adult person. I don’t much like it, but it’s better than being locked in a padded room without an internet connection. I think.

Translation to Russian can be read here thanks to evil_triffid!

Chapter 1: Part One

I am six years old when I am transported to the year 2261.

Of course, it is later explained to me that I have not been travelling through any shortcuts in time; rather I have aged in the customary manner, whereupon, at the age of twenty-nine, I have been involved in an accident that has reduced my physical age and erased my memories accordingly. I believe myself to be six. I feel six. A thorough examination of my body corroborates all other evidence.

My name is S’chn T’gai Spock, and I am six years old.

My Mother, a near-constant presence since my birth, has died two point eight three years ago, at a time coinciding with the destruction of my home planet. So I am told, and so I confirm from the computer logs.

Eighteen days after I have achieved a semblance of a routine – attending the provisionary school of compulsory education on the Colony, so facetiously called New Vulcan that even I, a foundling for all intents and purposes, cannot abide the cultural insensitivity – my Father greets me upon my return to our shared domicile: “It is gratifying to see you in good health, Spock.”

He implies mental health, I understand, and he is correct, inasmuch as I can be compared to my peers. Their mental bonds are most precarious, their belief in their paradigms shattered, and they attempt to overcompensate with a veneer of personal confidence, which, in my eyes, makes them into little but bullies. I am a prime target for them, for I have no social ties that would shelter me, and my half-human heritage affords a nimiety of points of contention with my person, should one be seeking any.

I remain unbothered by them. The damage they do is easily countered with a simple dermal regenerator, and I have kept the one I have acquired on the Enterprise.

I believe it is the momentum my Father’s perception of myself as an adult that forbids him from closely examining my personal effects. I intend to take all advantage of this unexpected reprieve.

I miss Jim.

“I have spoken with your instructors,” my Father continues, placing a bowl of replicated plomeek soup at my customary place at the table, “and they have reported your exceptional performance in your age group. They have proposed to advance you to the next level, based on the results of the examinations administered to you.”

I sit and lift my spoon. I resent my customary place at the table, but I will not inform my Father, because resentment is illogical, and I know that he wishes to see me behave logically. I in turn wish to give him the illusion for as long as I am capable of projecting it, for fear that he would attempt to take my emotionality from me if he discovers it. That, or cast me out of his clan for the shame of it.

Yet, how can I be ashamed of laughter? I recall Jim’s face, stretched in a grin, I remember the sound, rough and artless as it burst forth from his throat, the shaking of his shoulders, the sudden expansion of his ribcage. Everything about Jim has been endlessly fascinating, but the outward expression of joy, mirth, humor – a word that has no direct translation in the Golic language – has filled me with happiness such as I have not encountered since my arrival at the Colony.

I cannot be ashamed of laughter. Likewise, I cannot be ashamed of fear, or of yearning – it drives me to better myself, to succeed, to be faster, stronger and more knowledgeable, because at the end of this long, arduous trek, I see my reunion with Jim.

“I will proceed with my education at an accelerated pace,” I say, thinking of bright eyes and unabashed smiles. Of firm, warm touch of psi-null palms. If there ever was a reality-bound substitution of paradise, there is one waiting for me. “I see no need to linger.”

Father nods and stands. “I am pleased to observe your success,” he speaks, with only the slightest suggestion of artifice. Mother’s death has changed him much, and my regression has compounded that change in damaging ways. I can see it clearly. It is yet another reason to strive to leave this place – and its ghosts, if I am to allow for human sentimentality – and re-join the Enterprise.

x

I hold T’Rok’s hand as I am instructed to do.

Immediately, without any conscious decision on my part, my shields are engaged fully. I check myself before I indulge in a smile – this is a formal occasion, it would not do to flaunt tradition – and yet I already know that regardless of the hand that would be offered to me, my shields will always remain fully engaged.

T’Rok is a logical choice for a betrothed. So would be two hundred and eighty-seven of the surviving Vulcans, with seven hundred and thirteen others being acceptable choices. I already know I am unable to form a mating bond with any of them.

Unable – and unwilling.

My Father will not understand; such is the truth. It is a matter of logic, for him – the recourse of the entire Vulcan race after its genocide, and in abstract I agree with them. Perhaps, were I fully Vulcan, without the greater capacity for emotionalism that is my curse and my blessing, I would be able and willing to participate in repopulation efforts according to logic and tradition.

Still, I am a half-breed, a ‘bastard’ as my peers have resorted to calling me, heedless of the fact that my parents have been bonded and married, satisfying the cultural requirements of both their species. I am mostly immune to those insults – I recall James, telling me, tongue-in-cheek, how much he envied me the chance of having the best of both the Vulcan and the human without having to be either, and thus subject to the standards of either. I feel now that James’ assessment was much too optimistic, but his sentiment still remains one of my guidelines.

“Are you certain he is Vulcan?” T’Rok inquires, lips curling in an expression of disdain.

She does not feel my mind and automatically assumes that there is no mind to feel. How bigoted of her. At seven years of age, she should know better.

“Spock of the clan of Surak is telepathically adept,” the Healer confirms, but I feel the frigidity of her demeanor. I should not; any other Vulcan child would not. Even my inborn empathy sets me apart from my peers.

“I do not perceive the evidence of your statement,” T’Rok claims haughtily, and releases my hand, retrieving her own and wiping it on the edge of her garment as if fearful that she might catch a disease.

I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent a laugh from escaping me.

I have been contaminated with humanity – from my birth it has been so, and I know that I have twice gone through unsolicited harassment for it. It still feels like it is worth it, for there is a reward waiting at the end of my struggle, one that my fully Vulcan peers would not be even capable of dreaming of. It is tragic for them. Their minds are imprisoned within their individual perceptions of the reality, and they are forever the slaves of their own axioms.

I have no such limitations. I have a guiding star instead.

“S’chn T’gai Spock is not a fit candidate for a betrothal bond,” the Healer states with a hint of savage satisfaction that I discern and regard with a raised eyebrow. “He will not be accepted by any potential partner.”

“I see,” responds my Father. His eyes are a reflection of the desert – dry and reddened by the sunset. He gestures me to follow him, and together we depart from the ritual site.

Evening falls on the town; the lights at the strategic points switch on, offering enough illumination for us to safely navigate our way toward our home.

Sarek makes a motion as if to offer his hand but hesitates, and eventually refrains. “Before…” he ventures, the word filled with meaning which makes me uncomfortable, as I always am when compared to my past self, “…you have not evidenced any problems with forming a bond.”

I hide my hands inside the wide sleeves of my outer garment and raise both eyebrows.

“I know you, Spock. It is not a matter of your prospects refusing you – you are the one who refuses them.”

I must concede in this instance. Father has caught on, and he sees the contempt I feel for some of my peers or the disregard I afford others. My eyes are set on a more distant goal, and I have will and ability to attain it. I do not wish to be burdened with an obligation to anything else.

Sarek takes a deep breath then, as we stand on the threshold of our modestly utilitarian home. He types in the code and beckons me to precede him inside, out of the biting cold of the falling night. “Perhaps,” he mutters quietly to the back of my head, “you are not that different from yourself after all.”

x

I seek out news articles covering the Enterprise.

My Father frowns upon the practice, but he has yet to say anything on the topic to me, so I infer that his objections would be hypocritical at best and illogical at worst. I suspect that he has been far more reticent with me over the previous course of my childhood and has found a cause to bitterly regret it further down the metaphorical road. He attempts to correct his mistakes now. He speaks of my Mother, although it pains him, revealing at the same time the propensity of Vulcans to lie about their lack of emotions and their tendency to lie in general. Sarek is an uncontested Vulcan, and yet his major life decision were influenced or downright determined by emotion and instinct.

I feel gratified.

James has yet to solidify in my mind – what I have of him are mere weeks of memories and unreliable media coverage. There are his essays available on the Starfleet intranet and his dissertation, which I know by heart. There is a smattering of other information, arrest records, achievements, the victories in various competitions, his ranking as a Grandmaster in chess, and a couple of medical studies done on him when he evidenced a previously unknown allergy.

I collect them like gems. I build them into a mosaic in my mind, precious and fragile, surrounding the dark place hollowed out inside my katra. I know, although I wouldn’t be able to explain how, that James will slot into that place precisely, once I have him back. He will fit like he was made to be locked inside me.

I skip another level and begin my intermediary education. My teachers expect further four years, extrapolating from my heretofore displayed aptitude – I have secretly set myself the goal of reducing it to three years, once again taking James as my example.

With every passing day, I am closer to him.

x

“I am taking T’Irzehl as my wife,” Father says, after confirming that I have laid my teacup onto the table and am presently ready to receive such information.

I am glad that my hands are hidden out of his sight, for they seem to have clenched without any conscious input, as much of a deference to my Mother’s memory as is acceptable. I am, in fact, unsurprised. I have been aware of the reality of my Father’s situation for two years and twenty-nine days, and I understand the necessity of his actions. I do not wish for him to die, and there is no other viable option. In the past there might have been, but with the Vulcan society such as it is now, and my Father’s Time inexorably approaching, a marriage is the only respectable choice.

“I am not acquainted with T’Irzhel,” I reply in a firm, logical manner, and am briefly stunned to read the relief in my Father’s demeanor. Has he been concerned that I would disapprove? Behave emotionally?

It has not occurred to me that my deliberate and unashamed disregard of several of the traditional mores of the Vulcan culture has been a source of anxiety for Father on such a personal level. Politically, yes, my mere existence is a major inconvenience, and yet it has always been so. And I would not have existed without my Father’s approval, so he must have considered this outcome.

Have I behaved ungraciously? Shamefully? No, I do not recall throwing any tantrums. We disagree occasionally, as is inevitable between two headstrong people living in the same household, and yet apart from my unwillingness to bond there has been no strife between us.

“I will invite her to partake in our evening meal tomorrow, if that is agreeable to you,” Father suggests.

I nod. Once again, he seems to have forgotten that I am not in fact an adult. I do not mind, but such absentmindedness is worrying. It may be that a bond will be beneficial for him and help him heal those wounds before they become apparent even to those who do not know him as well as I do… if not, well, I am swiftly completing the educational stage necessary for the option of emancipation. Should the worst happen, I will not allow my more conservative relatives to hinder me on my quest.

“In the event that you change your mind,” Father says, inputting into the synthesizer the code for Terran dates which, I am aware, my Mother preferred, “it is still not too late to procure a bondmate for you as well.”

I look up. I hold his eyes for a while, and then lower my head. My tea has gone cold. My hand brushes over the pocket of my outer garment – I do not wear the traditional Vulcan style anymore, but a semblance of a Starfleet uniform jacket. I feel the weight and edges of my PADD, and take comfort in the existence of the Terran Doyle books I am presently in the process of reading. Their naivety and chronological misplacement is jarring and refreshing at the same time, and I find inexplicable reassurance in the knowledge that human friendship and loyalty have not changed in the past four hundred years.

James will accept me back; I only have to reach him.

“I anticipated that would be your decision,” Sarek admits, and we part for our individual evenings in silence.

x

I am ten when I discover the truth of the Ambassador Spock who briefly led the Colony and was instrumental in its inception. It is hidden very well – so well, in fact, that I suspect James has been complicit. James is, I know, accomplished at programming prestidigitation.

The knowledge troubles me.

After several failed attempts at meditation, I approach my Father. It is an afternoon and he is standing on the roof of our domicile, watching the horizon with his customary unreadable expression, as if he might walk away into the desert one day and not come back. Perhaps once I leave that is what will happen.

If what he feels for my deceased Mother is a fraction as consuming as what I am capable of feeling for James, I would not fault him.

“What became of Ambassador Spock?” I inquire, placing my hand on top of the plastic railing. It feels like an imitation of life – the whole Colony is a mere imitation of life, and some days I feel like either shouting or writing inflammatory poetry about why the entire Vulcan race should strive to die out in dignity. I would not do so in the end. I have too much respect for those who refuse to give up.

I wish to become one of them.

My Father gives little evidence of surprise, and yet I have the distinct feeling that I have managed to unsettle him. “What do you wish to know?”

I retract my hand and clasp it with the other one behind my back, pulling myself straighter, taller – even if I still barely come up to my Father’s elbow. “According to the logs, he has left the Colony shortly after I have arrived. There is no record of any medical treatments in his file, and there is no death certificate.”

I still cannot properly formulate my question, but Father gives me an answer nevertheless: “He has gone to join the crew of the Enterprise.”

“In my stead?” I demand.

“In your stead,” Father admits. “He claimed that too much hinged on the success of their first five-year mission, and the success of that mission hinged on the presence of a Spock on board. He wished it was you, but even he knew of no way of restoring you to your proper age.”

I lower my head. The motion is jerky, my teeth clenched, my fists too, and blood rushes in my temples as I am filled with bitterness. That should have been me. James and I, the two of us together as… as… I still cannot think the word, but it is there, on the edge of my perception. Soon, soon I will be old enough, wise enough, to claim it.

But James has gone on without me, with this other Spock, who is old, and who has already had his chance – his Jim – and now has laid claim to mine. Mine.

I just barely stop myself for breaking the railing. From shouting obscenity. I am aware of my flush, and of the close scrutiny my Father gives me, but I cannot say anything to him now, for if I opened my mouth, I would betray what I truly feel.

I give a graceless nod in acknowledgment, turn and descend the stairs in haste, practically running for my room.

I lock myself in and settle for meditation. Whether it takes hours or days, I must find a way to control this, lest it control me. I cannot allow it. I must believe, still, always, that he is waiting.

x

When my Father’s Time comes, I elect to leave the planet for a three-week-long journey rather than arrange for alternative accommodation. T’Irzehl and I have come to know each other as much as is necessary, and I feel comfortable relying on her when it comes to my Father’s continued health. Should complications arise, Healers will be at hand. There is nothing I could do, and so I am free to cater to my comfort.

I choose to spend the intervening time on Earth.

I do not expect anyone at all is surprised by my decision. I have entered into the segment of my education that recommends off-planet excursions to supplement the theoretical knowledge with practical experience, and I wish to experience what I can of Terra – less so because of my Mother’s heritage, more so for Kirk.

I step into the planet-side terminal hall, and am immediately overwhelmed with the noise and the smell. It takes me a minute or two to reinforce my shields and regain my equilibrium, and by that time I am being approached by a young woman in a Starfleet Cadet’s uniform. “Nam-tor oSpohk?” she inquires in accented Golic.

I nod.

She smiles, a nervous and bland expression compared to my recollection of Kirk’s smile. She is blond and blue eyed, and although my mind forces the comparison, she resembles Kirk in no truly significant way.

“Greetings from Earth!” she enthuses and moves to take my luggage. “I am Deanna Archer, and I shall be your guide.” Either that is the extent of her knowledge of Golic, or she simply lacks the confidence to speak more, for he switches to Standard. “It nets me extra credit in Interspecies Ethics, so feel free to inconvenience me as much as you like!”

I allow her to take the light bag with the clothing, but keep the heavy one with all my other effects on myself. I am still, even at half her age, twice as strong as she is. “I was made to understand that my accommodations would be procured through the Vulcan Embassy.”

“That’s right,” Cadet Archer agrees, nodding vigorously. Perhaps I was too hasty in my assessment – Kirk’s enthusiasm has always been expressed just as freely. “But then the brass heard that you’re coming, and the whole Academy’s been abuzz with it ever since – I mean, no disrespect, sir, but you’re a Federation Hero!”

Not I, I muse, boarding the shuttle in my guide’s wake. The other Spock. He was a Federation Hero. I am not the same person.

I am not comfortable accepting his accolades. Why does she call me ‘sir’?

“Basically,” she continues as we are seated, “the PR department’s duked it out with the Embassy, and in the end it was just easier to give in and let us take care of you. Don’t worry, we won’t put you into the dormitory. You’d be mobbed before dinner!” She laughs.

I acquiesce, trying to be polite, and look out of the window. It is my first visit to Terra. I am far more interested in the sights than in adulation – and the grey and violet sunset I see above the skyline already exceeds all my expectations.

Cadet Archer continues her monologue on the various titles and accomplishments of the other Spock, then on the complex political situation within the Academy, hints on her concern that she has been chosen for this task because of her familial relations, and segues easily into anecdotes about life at the Starfleet Academy.

I surmise that I am being recruited.

It is a wasted effort – within two or three years I will attend the Academy either way.

x

When I am twelve, I nearly run away from home.

I sit in my room, listen to the habitual movements of my Father and T’Irzehl in the communal parts of the house, and consider my options. I know how to get to Terra. I have sufficient monetary assets to finance the journey, and I am familiar enough with San Francisco to navigate my way to suitable accommodations.

I pull my feet up on top of my mattress and tangle my toes in the sheets. I hug my knees closer and set my chin on top of my wrist, staring at the screen of my terminal.

Terran and interplanetary media are in frenzy. The first five-year deep-space mission has been concluded, and the Enterprise is returning to the docks in Riverside, Iowa, Earth, for maintenance and upgrade. Captain Kirk is slated to be promoted to the rank of Admiral, but there is also speculation that he will refuse and request to lead another five-year mission. From what I recall of Kirk, Admiralship would not appeal to him. He will leave, and it will be five years again before I have the chance to see him.

There is a knock on my door.

“Enter,” I bid the intruder.

The footsteps are softer than my Father’s, so I expect T’Irzehl.

It is, in fact, T’Pau – bent with age and tribulation, yet with clear, penetrating eyes that feel as if she was staring straight into my soul. Perhaps she is. I have not been made aware of her visit, but when her eyes move around the room and halt at the terminal, I know why she has come. Perhaps Father knows me better than I have estimated – or else T’Pau herself does.

“Have you packed yet?” she asks in lieu of a greeting, and takes a seat without invitation. One of the privileges of old age, I am given to understand.

“No,” I reply and add, truthfully: “I am unsure if I will.”

T’Pau nods approvingly. “You are wiser than I expected of one so young and so – tried by circumstance. Whether you do or do not have a memory of it, living with loss is no easy task.”

I must look away. My eyes become glued to the screen, to the smirking visage of James Kirk, now five years older but still the youngest Captain in the Starfleet, still golden and radiant. Somewhere behind him, hidden from the flashlights and the cameras, stands the shadow of the yet another Spock.

“You will not go to meet him,” T’Pau speaks, and it is at the same time an acknowledgment of my unspoken decision and an order.

I nod.

I listen to her leave, and it is only when I hear my Father speak of prosperity and long life that I allow the shameful tears to well and run down my cheeks. I feel their salty taste in the back of my throat and hurt and hurt and hurt.

x

I am the youngest Vulcan ever to finish compulsory education.

Of course, I am not a full Vulcan, so I do not set any records. I feel grimly amused by this, and accept the offer of transitioning directly into the next grade without going through the odious process of external examining, as would be proper in my position – the dispensation is but a makeshift placation offered to me in the effort to keep me quiet on the matter of racial discrimination.

I meditate.

As opposed to the other Spock, the Elders and their prejudice mean nothing to me. Also, compared to the other Spock my intellectual aptitude is scored as significantly higher. Considering that the other Spock was already occasionally breaking grading curves – to borrow a Terran colloquialism – I am given to understand that my performance – to borrow another colloquialism – freaks my teachers out.

I continue being amused.

The Enterprise, captained by James Kirk, has been sent out on another five-year exploratory mission, and I subsist on scraps of information that is infrequently relayed to the media by outposts.

I meditate.

I have started a correspondence with T’Pau, who is, I believe, considering me for the position of her successor – pending my final acceptance of bonding. I am, however, nowhere near close to that. In fact, I suspect that it would take a repeated explicit rejection by James Kirk for me to relent.

Time is a beast and eats away at the staunchest determination, at the greatest passions and the most heart-felt oaths… and yet there is the ever-present empty space in my katra to remind me of my promises, to urge me not to surrender my ambition.

I meditate.

I spend hours upon hours of trying to find the tiniest speck of the other Spock inside my mind. The slightest slip of an incongruous memory, a smidgen of knowledge obtained elsewhere, a recollection of events I have not been a part of… but there is nothing. Whoever or whatever has wiped him from my mind has done a thorough job. He must have existed, for there are others who remember him, but if my body was ever his, he has been forced to cease his hold on it completely, only leaving behind his katra.

By Surak, his katra. My katra. Incomplete, frayed around the ages, permanently hurting.

I hear the whispers about me. My peers – even though they are not my peers anymore, for most of those on my level are at least four years older – do not say ‘bastard’ anymore; they say katra-fam ‘soulless’ or sutor-sasu ‘robot’. My presence makes them uncomfortable, and it is not solely due to my relative youth or my exceptional academic performance.

I have become aware, through T’Pau’s patient guidance, that I wear my loss as a cloak. I am garbed in it, and none may touch me without reaching through it. They dare not.

I am effectively isolated, cocooned in my hope and waiting for the day when I may – to borrow yet another Terran phrase – spread my wings and fly.

x

“Are you asexual?” T’Kai inquires during recess.

I contemplate how to answer. Her infringement upon my privacy is aggravating and her manner rude, and yet pointing out either would mean inviting ridicule for not wanting to answer.

The easiest response, as usual, is one partially truthful, and yet I have to struggle to evidence no hurt as I say: “My katra is spoken for – and so is all intimacy tied to it.”

I may be lying in this instance, but it is how I feel. I have never obtained even the most miniscule hint that Captain Kirk may be interested in my companionship. In opposition to that, a few of my now-companions, of eighteen and nineteen years of age, have propositioned me.

I have declined. It is mildly uncomfortable to be studied as bizarre – it would be unendurable to be used as a sexual novelty for the bored and the morbidly curious.

“He lies,” Senik speaks, leaning into T’Kai’s personal space in an explicit overture that makes many raise an eyebrow. “He is not bonded.”

“I have not been betrothed in a formal procedure,” I allow before they attack me with misconstrued and speculative accusations. My left hand curls around my PADD inside the pocket of my jacket. “My bond is spontaneous in origin.”

All, as far as I am aware, true. The fact that I do not recall it is a minor detail that does not concern them.

There is a disbelieving, mocking laughter, for which I am prepared. But there is also a hand grabbing for my face in an effort to disprove my claim through telepathic invasion.

Then there is screaming when I drive the spikes of my utensil through Senik’s palm.

x

Father and T’Irzehl accompany me to the port and tacitly watch as the attendant takes my luggage and proceeds with it into the belly of the shuttle.

Wind is picking up. There will be a storm tonight. The horizon is colored grey and beige with sand, and there is a hint of ozone in the air. The town is quieting down already, hours earlier than it usually would. Children, animals and plants have been secured inside, and the last of the adult presence in the street is dwindling.

After the shuttle has departed, they will raise the shield.

It is a familiar procedure in a familiar place, and I feel perhaps somewhat melancholy about leaving it behind, although not enough to give any outward evidence.

“Be well, Spock,” T’Irzehl speaks quietly, veering from the protocol.

I understand. She is last of her family; none other survived. Father and I are all she has, and she has been nothing but kind to me, if made exceedingly timid by her losses. Those losses are how we understand each other so well that we need not adhere to protocol between us – we tolerate each other’s peculiarities with greater aplomb than my Father can.

“Be well, T’Irzehl,” I wish her, offering a ta’al and a slight bow, which is as much ostensible affection and respect as the Vulcan culture allows in public. Sometimes I wonder what we are playing at – trying to hide inside our shells all the harder now, when we should be doing our best to reach out to each other. However, in the end it does not concern me.

I am, emphatically, not a Vulcan by most Vulcans’ standards.

“Call,” T’Irzehl adds quietly.

“Do,” my Father reaffirms. He tries to look at me but – as is usual lately – seems to misjudge the distance. His eyes remain mis-focused, as if he was looking two yards beyond the space I occupy.

I do not believe that I favor Mother quite that much, but I can think of only single other reason for his behavior: that he has been, in fact, mourning his son all these years. I am not the other Spock – I am not his Spock, Mother’s Spock; I have been a stranger in his house.

I do not promise that I will call.

I lift my hand, fingers spread. “Live long and prosper.”

The customary reply follows me up the ramp of the shuttle, and I seat myself, feeling untethered and mentally scrambling for the anchor of my guiding star. I am one step closer to him now.

x

The knowledge of Spock’s death spreads through the Academy similarly to a highly contagious disease on one afternoon in the beginning of the examination week.

I find out by overhearing other Cadets’ conversation during the lunch meal. It shocks me. I have actively despised this yet another Spock for years, and despite that the knowledge of his demise robs me of breath – and, apparently, of fine motor skills as well, since my fork falls from my suddenly akin-to nerveless fingers. I feel faint. The sustenance has lost all appeal, and I attempt to attain my feet, only to find that my gross motor skills have been affected, too.

I press my palms to the less-than-perfectly clean top of the plastic table in the student mess hall, and count seconds between my inhales and exhales.

Spock is dead. I feel detached and yet frightened – he was I, in a very fundamental way, and as such his death strikes me as a very real, stark, stinging reminder of my own mortality. Far worse, though, and the true reason for my incapacitation, is the realization that Captain Kirk is alone.

“Spock?” a voice attempts to reach me. “Spock, are you alright?”

“I am well,” I reply blandly, lying as easily as if I have spent years practicing. Perhaps I have. Perhaps that lesson has stayed with me since that happy time I have spent with Jim – James – Kirk – Captain Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Horrified, I wonder how much of him I have lost to time and the imperfection of memory. Where is he? Why has he never contacted me?

Has he been so satisfied with that yet another Spock?

And now that the yet another Spock is dead, will he come calling?

No. I shake my head and blink – my Mother’s genes make themselves evident by forcing moisture from my tear ducts – taking in my surroundings. A group of my peers has gathered around me. I recognize the faces from lecture halls and gyms, a few of them from laboratories and brief encounters in the library. Their expressions range from discomfort to sympathy. I admit that several of them could be called my friends.

“I am well, Shenka,” I say to the young woman who has inquired in the first place, and this time I sound more believable. “It was merely… unexpected.”

She sighs.

The man next to her – an Orion called Sirius, evidencing a less-than-fortunate sense of humor in his mother – speaks: “Jordi and I tried to comm you, so you wouldn’t find out from the news, but we’ve just learned and-”

There are shrugs and hand motions void of meaning.

“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “I require meditation, but I have in fact never met Commander Spock, so my loss is not a significant one.”

I do not think they believe me. It does not matter in this instance. What matters is that they do not demand that I talk, or that I do anything in particular. They allow me to pass from the hall unimpeded, and Sirius with his companion discreetly follow in my wake to my dormitory and discourage anyone from approaching me. I am grateful for their consideration.

I wonder if Captain Kirk will call.

Somehow… I do not think so.

Chapter 2: Part Two

“Graduated with honors,” says the familiar voice of Commodore Westervliet, “in fact – yes, here it is – the youngest graduate ever. That boy’s got the fires of Hell lit under his ass, though no one seems to know why. Maybe it’s, you know…”

I lock my knees, standing at attention, and clasp my hands behind my back. I should not be listening to my superior officers, but they are well aware that I am standing in the anteroom, and if they wished to remain unheard, they should have closed the office door completely.

It is already four point nine minutes past the time when the meeting I was invited for should have started.

“I don’t know,” says another voice, hoarse and somewhat accented. I detect a hint of hostility in the tone and, unobserved, raise an eyebrow.

“It’s only to be expected that he’d be compared to his past self, Commander,” Commodore Westervliet replies. “And, let me tell you, he’s outshining himself on every level, if you know what I mean.” He laughs heartily.

The other voice does not laugh. Apparently, the person does not find the assertion witty at all.

Neither do I, as a matter of fact.

“Come in, Ensign,” the other voice orders, and I enter the office quietly, keeping my expression neutral in face of the Commodore, his revolting artificial plants, the similarly revolting disorganization of his desk, and the not-at-all revolting scarred visage of the Lieutenant Commander. I feel like I should know this person, but there is no recognition.

I salute.

“Lieutenant Commander Chekov,” the man introduces himself, giving a perfunctory approximation of a salute back, “the Chief Science Officer on the Enterprise.”

“Sir,” I say, since there is nothing else. I know now who he is – and I do vaguely recall him as an exuberant boy, not quite a man yet, full of mathematics, physics, wonder of the universe and hero-worship for his Captain. Looking at him now is like looking at a whole other person – from that scar, which had obviously not received proper medical attention, to the diamond-sharp look in his eyes, to the square jaw, to the little copper hoop in his ear, mostly hidden under his hair.

Lieutenant Commander Chekov’s presence in this meeting means that all my effort has finally come to fruition.

“You have requested assignment to the Enterprise,” Lieutenant Commander Chekov says idly, closely observing my face.

“Yes, sir.”

“And how does the fact that it is going to be captained by Captain Sulu change that decision?”

My heart stutters. Has Captain Kirk given up on the Enterprise? There hasn’t been any talk of promotion this time around – I have assumed he would be going for a third five-year mission.

The Lieutenant Commander’s lips twitch. It is not quite a smile, but he has obviously read all my feelings in my expression. “You’re different,” he remarks.

It is all I can do to not flinch. I have heard it many times – I am unsure why it now affects me so much.

“It is a good thing, mind you,” the man continues, waving his hand in the air as though he was attempting to swat away an irritating insect. “We most of us respected the other Spock, but I don’t think a lot of us liked him. I did, but then, we both spoke mathematics.” He smiles.

I compulsively swallow.

Westervliet leans back in his chair and observes the debate as one would a theatrical performance.

“Are you speaking of the First Officer assigned to the Enterprise prior to the exploratory missions, or of the one recently deceased?” I inquire, a little proud of myself for keeping my tone even and my eyes on the Lieutenant Commander’s.

He nods seriously. “They were both very different people. I believe you’ll be getting a fresh start, Ensign Spock.”

It feels like the greatest validation I have been given in years. I think I will enjoy serving under this man.

x

It is two days and an hour and seventeen minutes before the scheduled take-off, and the crew is gradually filling out. I have been on board for more than a day already when I am moved to socialize with my new colleagues. The Recreation Room is full, and I do not feel comfortable, but I brace myself and engage in conversation with two other Ensigns in blue science personnel uniforms. One of them is five years older than I, the other eight, but they appear to tolerate my presence well enough, not in the least on behalf of my famous name.

Lieutenant Commander Uhura suddenly shouts in excitement, and the contingent of the Recreation Room converges around her. There are altogether too many officers, assigned to posts for which they are clearly overqualified, but the Enterprise is well-known for being the ship with the most stripes on it.

I climb up onto the seat for a better vantage point, since I have still not grown to my full height.

“They did it!” she yells when Commander Scott waves his hands above his head, demanding a report. “They convinced him!”

“Jim’s comin’?!” Commander Scott paraphrases, and then throws his head back and laughs, joined shortly by almost everyone else.

The entire crew is happy to have their Captain back. I observe their joy, sitting down and curling in on myself. There is relief, of course, but it is the painful relief that comes with the catharsis after a great amount of fear and desperate hope. I feel gutted, and try to mimic at least a shade of the happiness going on around me.

“Isn’t it great?” the Caitian Ensign demands, gesturing with a replicated flute of champagne. “It’s great!”

“It’s fabulous!” his human companion agrees, nodding vigorously.

They offer a flute of champagne to me, too. I take it and watch the bubbles form, ascend and disappear into the atmosphere, ephemeral.

Captain Kirk is coming here. I will be on the same ship with him, soon enough.

One last, final step now.

x

My heart beats so insistently that I fear it will shatter my ribs.

I stand in front of the station to which I am officially assigned, with the full awareness that those assignments are perfunctory at best and I will be expected to attend to anything and everything, at any time it is needed. I am looking forward to the service, aside from all personal motivations to serve on the Enterprise.

I briefly close my eyes and listen to the sounds: five pairs of soles impacting against the floor; the distinct sound of Lieutenant Commander Uhura’s heels, accompanied by four sets of standard male boots.

They round the corner.

I freeze.

The Captain swaggers in, all easy smiles and charm. He offers a jaunty hello, says something in a low voice to one of the female Lieutenants, who colors deeper azure and seems pleased at the attention. He asks a couple of questions, nods to the answers, eyes bright and taking in every detail, lips forming the names of the crewmembers as he commits them to memory, hands gesticulating freely when he speaks. He as good as dances between the stations and then suddenly he is here.

And I am still frozen, as though someone has doused me in liquid nitrogen.

“Ensign Spock,” Lieutenant Commander Chekov says, coming forth, and nods in a friendly greeting.

“S-sir,” I manage, and feel inexcusably young. I think my hands tremble.

Captain Kirk’s expression closes completely. His previously bright eyes darken as he looks – very briefly – at me and then turns to his companions. Commander Scott gives me an awkward smile and Commander McCoy keeps staring at me as if he has never seen me before, which is rather an odd position to be in. I must be very different from the Spock he has been used to, because his gaze is unceasing.

I seek assistance from Lieutenant Commander Chekov, who nods at me again, and places his hand on the Captain’s shoulder. “Jim, we all know you know what astrometrics are about, so let us get a move on-”

“No,” the Captain says. He is half-turned away, and yet addresses me: “Well, Ensign, tell us about your post.”

“Sir,” I manage, and feeling buoyed now that my voice-box seems to have been released from the sudden grip of muteness, I could describe my job in my sleep.

Frankly, I am not much more conscious of my words than if I was asleep.

Afterwards, the Captain chews on his tongue, finds nothing to say, and with an off-hand salute and a last contemptuous look at the vicinity of my shoulder leaves, followed by his retinue who treat me to a mixture of pity and weary antagonism.

I check the floor under me, but it seems to be clean. Strange. I have been so sure that I was bleeding out.

x

The Chief Medical Officer takes pity on me.

I find myself admitted to his office, seated in front of a desk that is almost as disordered at Commodore Westervliet’s, and offered a tumbler of a contraband alcoholic drink I have not the slightest intention to imbibe. It is, apparently, altogether too easy for the original crew of the USS Enterprise to forget that I am, in fact, underage. Not that alcohol would have any deleterious effect on my body in less than extreme quantities, but it is a pertinent observation nonetheless.

“I do not understand…” I speak into the prolonged, disconcerting silence.

Perhaps my memories are corrupted, yet I still remember those three weeks I spent on board of this ship as a child clearly. There are no gaps, no uncertainties – I recall Captain Kirk being an anchor to me when I was lost. He represented stability and sanity, and while he was as good as radiating staggering sorrow, which I occasionally detected even without the medium of physical contact, he was always kind and filled with limitless, unconditional love for me.

Losing him when my Father re-took responsibility for me had been crushing.

I deduced already years ago, from my Father’s reactions and from the none-too-reticent opinions of the survivors of our clan, that I am different now than I was before. I am not the Spock they knew. I am, in fact, a living proof of how differently the psyche develops when exposed to a different nurturing environment.

Perhaps that is the reason for the Captain’s cold reception.

“…why Captain Kirk hates me,” I finish, mildly embarrassed.

Doctor McCoy mutters something so foul and so depravedly, sexually explicit, that I briefly disbelieve the evidence of my ears. I feel the burn in my cheeks as I force the mental images into the recesses of my mind – to be meditated upon later, in the privacy of my cabin, for their illicitness engenders an uncontrollable excitement that very nearly elicits a physical reaction – and I cross my arms, bracing myself for the response.

The Commander swallows the contents of his tumbler, heedless of their intoxicating effect, and turns to me. His facial expression suggests a strong, presumably enduring, negative disposition toward my person. I consider my personal safety for a moment, before I recall what I have read and heard of this man – he is fair, loyal, and does not break his oaths. Mere anger, or even hatred – which I am duly concerned he feels toward me – would not move him to violent action. Fear might do so, but he does not fear me.

I exhale loudly enough to re-capture his attention.

He scoffs. “He doesn’t hate you. I do, no two ways about it, kid – sorry for that, it’s a shit thing to do, but then…” he trails off, and I am left to parse out the meaning of his conveyance.

It is quite a puzzle, and as much as I ordinarily enjoy the challenge of puzzles, at the moment I am too nervous for any sort of joy. According to Doctor McCoy, he feels strong negative emotions toward myself that are not directly caused by my own actions. I have accepted a post among those who knew other versions of myself, so I must accordingly accept being the object of their unresolved emotional engagements with… them. With the other Spocks.

Doctor McCoy evidently has a reason to hate the other Spocks.

Captain Kirk, however, still confuses me. If there had been any hatred there, he would have delegated the care of myself as a child to a member of the crew. It had certainly been unorthodox of him to assume the responsibility himself. It hints at a strong positive attachment, and I have been relying on this presumption for a long time.

The Captain’s… brush off, as I am forced to term it, bewilders me.

“The thing is,” Doctor McCoy suddenly continues, as if the pause has not happened at all, “that you’re not him.”

“The other Spock,” I say, understanding at least that much.

Not for the first time, I am filled with resentment. I should not allow my feelings as much space and influence on myself, but I am told that I am defective as a Vulcan, so it would be futile to try and behave differently. Kaiidth. What is, is. The past is done, the present is set, and it falls to ourselves to form the future.

I wish for Spock’s future. The other Spock’s. I should not – many have told me so, including my Father and T’Pau, but the desire does not abate. I wish to become him. I wish to have his memories, to resume his relationships and to claim his destiny.

“You’re not,” the Doctor reaffirms, unaware of how cruel he is being.

The words rend apart the wall shielding me from the worst of my emotions, and I already feel my defenses disintegrating. I have convinced myself that I was ready for this – but I am not. I am still awash with naïve, childish visions of future happiness, of fulfillment, and the crushing of hope is without a doubt the most painful occasion in my… memory. Not in my life. I am sure there were more painful occasions in that time that is now lost to me. My Mother’s death, I believe. And the Captain…

Who was I to the Captain?

“You’re not his Spock.” Commander McCoy presses his clenched fist to his temple. His eyes are closed, preventing him from observing my reaction.

I understand. It is a sudden, heavy, crushing weight upon my chest. It is akin to waking up after a shattering loss. It is the necessity of breathing in cool air despite the smell of burnt flesh still overpowering in it. “I am not his lover, you mean.”

McCoy jolts, and then stares at me as if he hasn’t expected me to infer this. Captain Kirk’s response to my presence was a mixture of pain and self-protective apathy, I can now discern that. Not hatred, as I have mistakenly assumed – as he wished I would assume. On a level that I cannot safely determine, I know him. I have always known him, and I always shall. An untranslatable word alights inside my mind, and I fear it is too early for myself yet too late for the Captain, and while I am not responsible for this tragedy of chronological misalignment, I accept McCoy’s anger.

“You’re a kid who’s got a couple of hazy memories of him,” the Doctor says.

I nod. I do not bother to inform him that, owing to my eidetic memory, there is nothing at all hazy about those memories. That they have been my guiding star in the years past – that I have sped through my compulsory education on the Colony and applied to Starfleet Academy at the first opportunity, disregarding my Father’s resigned disapproval. That I have toiled and struggled, all in the effort to get back to my Captain as fast as possible. It took me eleven years. For that I am willing to apologize.

“Does…” I allow myself to trail off. I wish to ask, does that automatically render me incapable of loving him? and yet I know already the response my query would receive.

No. No, I shall not expose my vulnerability before anyone but the man for whom I am here.

And if that means acquiring the entrance codes to his cabin, by whatever means that are available to me, whether they be illegal or not, I will do it. I will invade his personal space, I will harass him, I will risk legal repercussions for the chance to recapture what once was stolen from us. I may not remember it, but the black emptiness it left when it disappeared is still an open, crippling wound in my mind.

I cannot rest until it is healed.

“What?” the Doctor inquires dispassionately, as he finishes pouring another tumbler of the sweet-smelling liquid.

“Nothing, Commander,” I reply, facetious, knowing that he does not have the wherewithal to interpret my change of mind. “I apologize for monopolizing your time.”

“Think nothing of it, kid,” the man replies, swallows his mouthful of disgusting alcohol and shivers. “This week, it was about the least nauseating heart-to-heart I’ve had.”

I do not inquire about the meaning of the phrase – instead I offer a generic greeting and depart. Hear-to-heart sounds to me like a medical procedure from Terra’s history, and I do not wish to ever know whether it has a literal basis in some of the more ill-advised medical practices of human Middle Age. The figurative meaning is clear enough, when I allow for a little imaginativeness – the sharing of emotionally or sentimentally charged personal information through conversation. A necessary practice for a species unendowed with telepathy.

I pass a pair of chattering Yeomen in the corridor leading to the Sickbay, and they smile at me, momentarily ceasing their discourse. I respond with a nod, which seems to satisfy them. My estimation of their ages suggests that they do not recall my previous assignment to the Enterprise. They are too young. Their responses are too untainted. The original crew tends to look at me askance, to have obvious expectations of myself, to have opinions and emotional ties they are unable to dissociate.

Like the Captain.

x

It takes two months for me to receive an opportunity for Bridge duty.

It is exceptionally difficult to manage, because in my haste to qualify for an assignment on the flagship, I have concentrated solely on achieving exceptional results in the Science track, neglecting other avenues of education. I could have graduated the Command track, too – but it would have taken an additional year, and that was unacceptable.

I would have missed the cut-off date for this five-year mission.

In the end, I capitalize on the outbreak of cold among the human crewmembers – a virus that I am, fortunately, immune to by virtue of my partial Vulcan heritage. While most of my senior officers are confined to their cabins, I am assigned to Gamma shift.

It is… I hesitate to use the descriptor… boring. We are still flying through the charted space, and there are no dangers to be on the watch for. The shift amounts to eight hours of ennui, disrupted only slightly when Lieutenant Su-krisla falls asleep at her station and her snoring elicits some mocking animal-like sounds from the pilot and navigator stations. She is woken by the other Communications officer, and her subsequent shame makes her the target of further humiliation. At least no one is as spiteful as to report her lapse.

The entire experience is so disheartening that I dread repeating it on the next day – but just before the next Gamma shift starts, Commander Sulu comes in. The crewmen gradually gain the confidence to ask him questions about his adventures. There is a lot of hyperbole, I am certain, but there is also a lot of experience to be second-handedly gained from listening, so I do. I believe that Commander Sulu would be an exemplary Captain himself, should he accept the command of a ship.

Even so, I am selfishly glad that he was not given the opportunity to captain the Enterprise on this mission.

“What about you, Ensign Spock?” Commander Sulu asks suddenly. “What made you decide on the Starfleet?” He does not say ‘again’, but I can almost hear it.

I affect as much nonchalance as I can muster. “I have always been drawn to a star – the stars, I mean,” I correct myself, and I think most of the crew ascribes my slip to a language barrier, but Commander Sulu does not.

He extrapolates from his knowledge of the other Spocks and looks away, discombobulated, choosing not to pursue the topic further.

The other Ensigns are happy enough to fill the time with less galvanized conversation.

x

A shadow falls on my PADD and I look up into the open face of Lieutenant Commander Uhura.

“May I join you?” she asks.

“Please,” I reply. I minimize the word processor window, irrationally self-conscious about my taste in literature. I do not wish to hear Lieutenant Commander Uhura’s opinion on Tolkien.

“It is very nice to have you here, as a part of the crew,” she says, and once again there’s that silent ‘again’ to which I have no defence.

Even the Captain’s explicit rejection, coarse and painful as it was, is better than this. If that makes me a masochist, then so be it. Masochism is, I am reliably informed, a valid preference.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I reply noncommittally.

“None of that formality!” she commands. “Call me Nyota. We-” she cuts herself off, wide eyed.

We, indeed, have not known each other for years.

“Ma’am,” I reply blandly.

Her eyes well. I believe this falls under the heading of ‘unfair’.

“I have hoped,” she professes, “that we might make music some time. It is a joy to listen to you play.” There is an eager, wild look in her eyes.

I am very apprehensive about refusing, and yet I remain unable to comply. “Commander, I cannot play a musical instrument. In my haste to complete my education, there was no time left over for extracurricular pursuits.”

“Oh,” she utters after a while, during which she presumably tries to think of something more appropriate to say and fails.

“I… apologize?” I suggest.

“No!” she exclaims. “No, do not. You should not, of course – that was short-sighted of me. I… am sorry.”

“So am I,” I reply, instead of the automatic ‘your regret is illogical’ that would have basically been my Father speaking through me.

Lieutenant Commander Uhura leaves then, with just enough grace to preclude the use of the term ‘flees’.

x

It is my second rotation on landing party, and I am participating mainly because of my extensive knowledge of geological specifics of desert environments.

Also, I presume, although this has not been specifically stated in the briefing, that I am participating because I feel comfortable in higher temperatures, lower humidity and an atmosphere less rich in oxygen. As it is, I experience only mild discomfort standing on the heated surface of a flat rock a short time before meridian.

“My eyes hurt,” a Security member complains, using his hand as a makeshift shade over his apparently insufficient protective eye-gear and surveying the plains. The sand is itself crystalline, reflecting the rays of the local star. I myself am not in pain solely due to my nictitating membrane.

The landing party is therefore wholly unprepared when the attack commences.

I look up from a fistful of sand, one knee absorbing the heat of the rock through the thin fabric of regulation trousers and there they are – indigenous people, six-limbed, I believe, wearing camouflage that glitters just like the dunes do, and wielding projectile weapons.

One of the Security members is shot through the head and dead in a shower of wine-red blood before the party realizes what is happening.

I see the weapon aimed at the Captain and all my instincts scream inside my head. I am unaware of moving until it has already been done. Shots thunder, two of them, and I feel as though two iron fists have struck me into the chest, one hitting center, the other slightly off to the left.

The momentum carries me backwards into a person, who manages to remain upright, but grips my upper arms and carries me down to the ground, almost gently. I hear phaser fire and taste copper on my tongue. I cough. Blood bubbles in my throat, and even as voices shout my name I close my eyes and think, it was worth it.

x

“You know, Spock, they don’t let insane people captain ships,” someone speaks.

I raise an eyebrow at the statement. Arguably, according to the history of Starfleet as word-of-mouth recounts it, the greater a Captain, the more tenuous a hold on their sanity they had. Captain Archer, for instance – based on anecdotal evidence gathered from his great granddaughter – could not be diagnosed as sane by any stretch of the term.

“I respectfully disagree, Captain,” I reply.

There is laughter. A finger, frustratingly cautious, pushes a strand of hair off of my forehead. I open my eyes and see him looking back. My Captain. He is smiling. I would almost be convinced that I am dead, and this is some unanticipated religiously postulated continuation of existence in the afterlife, except that my chest hurts.

“You always do that,” the Captain says, exasperated, and takes a seat on the edge of the mattress of the hospital bed. He shakes his head. “Always.”

“Do what?” I inquire. Dull ache throbs with every word, but I reroute the information to a part of my conscious where it won’t affect my actions.

“All of this!” the Captain exclaims nonspecifically, spreading his arms wide. “Save my life. Sacrifice yours. Scare me out of my wits.” He pauses and then presses a fist to his forehead. “Make me laugh,” he adds quietly.

“That appears to be my nature, then,” I conclude. If three very differently reared versions of myself have resorted to the same patterns of behavior, it must be in my very nature. Although, admittedly, I have known since I was six years old that I would grow up to be this man’s satellite.

The imagery makes the corners of my eyes crinkle in the sort of smile I have never been able to fully conceal.

Kirk huffs. “I could do with less of that.” Despite his outward amusement, there is very real pain in his demeanor. “Know what? You mess me up. I wasn’t fine after you’ve gotten yourself kiddified – no kidding – but at least I had the other you, but then he died, and now you’re here, but you’re seventeen and…”

“You are confused,” I interpret his monologue. Well, it is understandable. Common wisdom would suggest that Kirk treat the other Spock, the yet another Spock and myself as different people, but when it comes to telepathic bonds and the twinning of katra, there is no compartmentalization that can separate a Spock from a Spock.

“Well duh,” Kirk says, almost childishly, and I feel like I am finally seeing the man from eleven years ago – the one that had chased me through Jefferies tubes and told me tall tales about Iowa… the one that had cried quietly in the corner of the cabin when he thought I was asleep, the night before the Enterprise had at the behest of my Father discharged me on the Colony.

I extend my hand and he takes it before he recalls that he didn’t mean to, apparently used to it from years of… friendship with the yet another Spock. He tries to pull away, but it is too late. I have his measure now.

He is terribly broken, grieving, but he is still alive, still dreaming and reaching out and capable of love. That is all I need. I already know that he slots perfectly into the empty space inside me.

I use the grip on his hand to pull myself up, closer to him, but he darts forward, pushing me back onto the bed with his other hand. He leans in, so I achieve my objective anyway, probably without even damaging myself further.

I place my hand against his meld-points, whisper: “T’hy’la…” and watch as his protest dies before it is given voice.

x

Comfortable within the privacy of our – as of yet unofficially – shared cabin, I accept the call from the Colony dressed down to my black undershirt. I admittedly expect it to be my Father, but I am not surprised to face T’Pau.

What does surprise me is the surge of affection I feel looking upon her unapproachable, cold exterior. We exchange formalities; I am reliably informed that both Father and T’Izehl are in satisfactory health, and then T’Pau’s eyes narrow. “Would it be appropriate to extend well-wishes upon your bonding?”

I am mortified by how visibly I am certain I flush.

T’Pau’s eyebrows climb high above her eyes, and there is a spark of utter filthiness that alights upon her features before it disappears under the veneer of equanimity. “I am given to understand that your return to the Colony is unlikely.”

“I follow my bonded,” I say, redundantly, for this T’Pau has known since I have set foot onto the Colony. “I do not believe he will choose to live among Vulcans. And yet,” this is painful, but I am not as illogical as to close my eyes to the fact, “it is unlikely that he will live long beyond half a century from now, even should his life not be shortened by violent means.” Which, knowing Jim, was all too likely.

“You will come back in the aftermath?” T’Pau inquires, steepling her gnarled fingers.

“I imagine I shall go where I am needed at that point in time,” I reply. I am eighteen now. With much good luck, I may be seventy before my guiding star winks out of existence. It is far too early to speculate.

“You are wise for one of your age,” T’Pau comments, almost idly. “I believe it is the boon of your breeding – wisdom is far more readily accessible to you, even when you still struggle for logic. It is a most interesting phenomenon.”

I do not say ‘thank you’ even though it is on the tip of my tongue. T’Pau is not human to require, expect or accept superficial gratitude.

The door behind me slides open and closed. Light footsteps move across the carpeting, and I feel the weight of my bonded’s gaze on the back of my neck. T’Pau’s eyes move away from mine, resting briefly on Jim.

“Greetings, Captain Kirk,” she says.

“Greetings, Elder T’Pau,” Jim replies, and leans his hip against the desk mere inches from my right elbow. Now I am incited to look up at him, and my breath catches in my throat as it still does sometimes. There is too much satisfaction, too much joy, to engender simple happiness. It still feels like sandpaper applied to the inside of my skull occasionally, but my mind has come to equate Jim with ecstasy.

Perhaps my somewhat facetious assessment of my masochistic inclination was actually based in reality.

It does not bother me.

I divert my attention back to T’Pau, who is looking upon me with nary a raised eyebrow. She has quietly been my staunchest supporter in my endeavours through being my least effective opponent. Her counter-arguments have served well to replenish my determination whenever it dwindled.

I owe her much.

“Should I be needed, I will be available to the Colony,” I promise.

And T’Pau logs off with the suggestion of a smile around her eyes, knowing that when I promise something, I do not stop until I achieve it.

Notes:

Originally, this story ended with ‘it was worth it’, but I didn’t want to depress myself or anyone else that much, and it was just ugly, so no. No. Spock gets his happy ending in this one. Cheers!