Chapter Text
Part I
In the Sol year of 2131 when humans first became warp-capable, Solkar of the S’chn T’gai clan landed on Terra. There have been many speculations on why he even attempted such a fruitless, pivotal endeavor. Perhaps his surveying crew had sought to observe the human specimens for further studies – (Solkar was known for his unusual proclivity for xenoform studies and his ruthless tactics of mindmelds, according to the accounts of his staff) - or the Terrans had baited him with a signal. Regardless, Solkar naively seemed to not believe that the Terrans would kill him on site, as well as ravage his more advanced ship to spearhead their intergalactic domination.
In an unprecedented move in their history, the Terrans had united. This was likely motivated out of fear, an emotion experienced by many humanoid species that leads to debilitating loss of reason, and the profound realization that they were not alone and very much vulnerable to attack. (Of course, their propaganda has so far claimed they were ambitious, dauntless, and the rightful holders of power.) Quietly, the Terran nations, which were long at war with each other, developed their own perverse technology with a remarkable obsession towards weapons and defense. In a span of decades, borders collapsed and shifted, families rose from the dust into power, and a new, hungry Empire rose prepared to enter the intergalactic fray.
The Empire first targeted the Andorians. A military race, once renowned for their resilience and fighting, surrendered in three days. It is still not known how this was done. The Andorians are now a source of field labor.
Within a month, the Empire targeted the feral and strong Orions. Then the weak, obsequious Denobulans. Next the old and technologically rich Bajorans.
Planet by planet, the Terrans swallowed up the Alpha Quadrant, not unlike a gaping black hole. With every civilization, they became more formidable with newly acquired knowledge and advancements. My people on Vulcan knew that it would not be long until the Terrans would set their sights on our planet. As a race, we are, at first glance, formidable - rage and violence were intricately woven into the fabric of our culture, our being, and we excelled in the sciences - but we are also old and slow-aging. We have grown comfortable with the belief that we are superior in the mind, and my people is steeped in tradition. Thus, we did not cultivate or evolve in our fighting skills, weapons, or strategy. We remained as static as the deserts around us. Terrans, meanwhile, had been constantly evolving and adapting on their own world for millenniums - and mere years in the galactic setting. Without even knowing what kind of weapons and tactics were being used by the Terrans, my planet was incredibly unprepared for warfare.
Thus, we did the logical thing – we surrendered before the fighting even began. The High Command, who had led the now-dead Confederacy of Vulcan government, marketed our race as valuable: intelligent, logical, yet not capable of war or greed. A relationship that the Terrans can gain from without the usual fear of mutiny. The Vulcan people are not slaves, enemies, nor equal partners, but rather vassals and subordinates ready to serve.
The Terrans were careful in accepting, and it was not without bloodshed. Traditional families who opposed submission to the encroaching race were promptly executed. The High Command itself was destroyed, as well as the High Council, who held the culture and history of the Vulcan people. Of course, the Terrans did not know that Vulcans were [Illegible, evidence of tampering and desecration] – both of which had been kept a careful secret up to even now. In the quietude of our homes, the culture and history of our people are slowly taught in silence with [Illegible]. Messages are able to be passed among the Vulcan people, and the Terrans are none the wiser. It is perhaps prudent to clarify if there is an elaborate endgame or a secret revolution stirring among the my people.
No, would be the simplest answer.
The Terran Empire, for all their barbarity and brutality, are unquestionably dominant in the Alpha Quadrant. For a single planet to uprise against them would be absurd. The humans are not the same primitive species that they were once thought to be – my people had a hand in ensuring that, after all.
It will not be long until the transition is complete and we are fully enveloped into the empire. Terrans will occupy our streets and we will be enslaved, regardless of what passive terminology they designate us. They already have begun discussions regarding outlawing the Vulcan language, and redesigning our children's curriculum to uphold the language and history of Terra, just as I write now to preserve ours. And yet people are content to remain in the shadows of the Terrans’ grandeur. They have even so far assisted the Terrans in their quest for domination quite willingly – if not excessively. All the while, we are cementing our valuable roles in the Empire. We serve unquestionably and without heated emotions and pride to complicate things.
It is this way we will ensure the longevity of our race, and we may attempt to make the best of the circumstances. This could mean, for example, influencing the course of events from the shadows.
An empire, no matter how great, is not immortal, and my people are nothing but patient.
"The Private Ruminations of R'ikh T'nar Skalor" (2160). Written by R'ikh T'nar Skalor, a prominent Vulcan xenoanthropologist, one of few to specialize on Terra. Now deceased following sentence for hate speech in 2200.
STATUS: BURNED.
Shi'Kahr, Vulcan - Imperial Date 2234
It required only a second to take a life.
Though that was itself a generous statement. The time it takes for a phaser blast, specifically that of a Type II pistol, to pass through a skull was approximately 0.001 seconds. This was faster than the blink of an eyelid. Thus, should one time it accurately within an acceptable range of error, one could just miss the kill shot.
An elder Vulcan crumpled to the ground, his lined hands just barely cushioning his fall. His once-elegant, heavy robes – made of the finest silks his people had to offer – were in tatters and stained with his filth. His black hair streaked with grey was matted, and tufts had fallen out from where electrical pulses were applied (a common form of torture). His open wounds wept with startling green rivulets that formed a growing pool beneath him that clashed against the bright white of the marble floor. No such stone naturally existed on Vulcan, and it glowed glaringly under the lowering rays of Vulcan's three stars.
The elder, once great and influential, was now stripped of his dignity as he lay broken above the damning, unforgiving gaze of hundreds of his people.
One by one, six more Vulcans were dragged out in similar defeated states and lined up beside the first elder. On their breasts were the same silver badges with the insignia of their Empire, a sword stabbing through an alien planet, except it was pinned purposely upside down. The mark of a traitor. The Vulcans who watched in the courtyard below stood as still and grim as statues. No Vulcan showed any sign of pity or horror – indeed, none so much as offered a twich of the eyebrow as they drank in the scene. Likely not even one would come to mourn for those on the top of the steps.
Not even Sarek, who stood on the platform as well – immaculately clean and untouched. Positioned only a mere four feet away, Sarek met the stoic eyes of the battered elder.
Seven Terran soldiers forced the Vulcans to sit upright, and seven phasers glowed red and hungry in their hands. Their gold Starfleet badges on their chests glinted as seven pulses of pure hot plasma shot out in a synchronous order. There was no explanation given to the crowd, no justification. It took less than a second.
Some in the courtyard had blinked. Sarek did not.
It took less than a second for Skon, the Vulcan Ambassador of Terra, to fall limply by Sarek’s feet – a burning hole through the center of his forehead. Viscous, vibrant-green fluid oozed and bubbled out like a tainted well in the desert sands. The puddle of his father’s blood stretched towards him slowly and thickly like syrup until its edge was only inches away.
In front of the audience and cameras, Sarek took a single, measured step to the side. The blood, unimpeded, reached the edge of the stairs where it began to seep down its sides in a clean, straight river.
Not one of his people moved while the Terrans, the rims of their phasers still seething, strode over the still-warm bodies. Only after they reenter the Imperial Forum did the Vulcan people of Shi’Kahr silently begin to file out of the courtyard.
The Imperial Forum of Vulcan was composed entirely of bone-white marble. Inside was where the most influential servants of the Empire, which once included Skon, enacted their daily discourse. With its foreign-styled pillars and carved figurines of the Terrans’ dead gods, it was tastelessly out of place in his planet. Its gold embellishments were garishly bright, yet still dulled by its years in Vulcan’s harsh terrain. Despite the Terrans’ best efforts, which consisted of ordering their Vulcan valets to consistently clean, streaks of red dust persisted to stain the outer walls, giving the appearance of not unlike dried human blood.
Outside leading up the forum’s grand entrance were sixty-six steps, four of which were stained by the growing pool of green blood dribbling over. Per protocol towards dissenters, the bodies will remain untouched and bare to the environment until the next morning. When the stars of his system set fully beyond the horizon and the night sky rose, the city’s electricity and lights will be forcibly shut down, and the predators from the Forge would be invited to come. Enticed by the scent of copper that they can smell miles away, they will creep within the rare darkness to meet at the steps for a gratifying meal.
The next morning, with more bones left than flesh, the steps will be meticulously cleaned until they gleam.
A dark cruiser waited for Sarek beyond the Forum's courtyard. Such vehicles on Vulcan were rare as his people were typically not allowed such privileges and had to instead rely on carefully monitored public transportation methods. Only those of a higher rank with imperial connections, such as the S’chn T’gai clan, were gifted one by the Empire for their loyalty. Yet even then, it did not come without restrictions – or ‘protocols’ as the Terrans called them.
His Terran driver did not verbally acknowledge Sarek, as usual. Frankly, in the three years the Terran had been assigned to his clan, Sarek was never imparted the driver's name. He did not even know his eye color, as they were always hidden behind dark shades. This was a common necessity for the Terrans with their sensitive retina to reside on his planet, but even behind the safety of the vehicle’s tinted glass, the driver had yet to remove them.
On occasion, Sarek would exercise his mind by contriving ways of incapacitating his driver.
Sarek, after all, learned many things from years of observation. The driver had a scar that would peek from under the neck collar of his shirt. He always leaned 3 degrees more to the left than right, and he often flexed his shoulders back. Standard muscle tenderness associated with working as an all-day driver for 988 days. He would be slow in reacting to a sudden attack.
But the driver certainly knew all about Sarek as well – his coming and goings, his meetings, his location, his schedule. Just as intended by the empire. Indeed without a single word shared between them, the cruiser began moving towards west towards his place of residence. Sarek occupied a complex in the western outskirts of Shi’Kahr that was hidden against the edge of the Vulcan Forge, where its irregular and violent lightning storms were ideal for covering high-frequency transmissions.
But when they were minutes from arriving to his home, the vehicle suddenly turned sharply north along the desert range. Unless his driver was intending to drive them to an obscure location to dispose of him, which was entirely possible given his father's fresh traitor status, Sarek was quite certain already who it was that was demanding his company. How disagreeable.
The home of his childhood was nearly impossible to reach by foot. Placed on the unforgiving slopes of the looming Mount Seleya, it was optimally placed for security and solitude. It was tucked into the ever-constant shadows of its red rocks, thus protected against the combined heat of Vulcan’s brutal three stars. It was always dark, cold, and quiet like a mausoleum.
When the cruiser landed, only a single, flickering light shone starkly though one of its many windows.
Typically, a Vulcan servant would meet him as he landed and lead him to the masters of the house. But the front was empty, and so Sarek entered the dark home by himself. He picked up the candle by the front to guide his way.
His nameless driver leaned against the vehicle, pulled out a cigarette, and began to smoke.
The house was very sparsely furnished, and only certain rooms had electricity – out of preference for its traditional owners. There were little adornments such as rugs or art in the rooms, even less in the wide halls. Once upon a time, there used to be intricate, glittering tapestries, complex geometric sculptures, and colorful vases that populated the house – it appeared more like a boasting museum than a tomb, at least, but those were taken and destroyed after the Occupation. Sarek had thus never seen the lost art with his own eyes, but he has seen them through the eyes and memories of his father. Skon, Sarek brusquely inwardly corrected.
They had servants back then as well, though that hasn’t changed – until now, apparently.
Sarek walked down the twisting halls until the end grew brighter from a light within a room. He also noticed a growing, impowering scent of spice and wood. The door was open, and inside awaited one lone woman.
“Mother.”
S'chn T'gai T’Lara sat on the floor mat, her pure silver threads appearing like live electrical wires under the bright flickering flame of a lone candle. Though she was only a handful of years older than his father, her hair had turned abruptly like the seasons of Terra. Her face also looked as though it was impounded from steel, harsh and unyielding, and the few wrinkles around her mouth and eyes appeared strategically placed rather than gifted by time. Sarek had inherited her proud, strong aquiline nose.
Incense burned on the table in front of her. Such things were frowned upon in their current society – an old reminder for what once was – and Sarek can only recall one other occasion when he had seen it out.
“Child.” Her voice was as levelled as the Vulcan Forge, the Terran name for the flattest and widest desert on their planet. Beautiful, but cruelly without any water or vegetation for one to survive on. “Tea is available.”
Tradition demanded that he served it for them both – he was still the guest, son or not – and T’Lara was clearly waiting. Her eyes were like black beetles crawling into him as he poured the tea. Steam curled out of the curved spout, and its heat licked his fingers unpleasantly.
They both raised the cup to their lips. The bitter tea scalded his tongue, and soon, taste was only a concept. Sarek allowed the searing response of pain to flare for a second, not unlike how a Terran swishes around fine wine for a deeper appreciation. Then Sarek’s mind merely shifted, turning off the distracting noise of his singed nerves.
“Did he die in pain?”
A strange query. Sarek considered the sensation he himself had just experienced and the scars his father bore on the stage in formulating his response. Skon’s clear eyes flashed across his mind. “Perhaps. His body was damaged, though he undoubtedly prevented the brunt of feeling to afflict him.”
“You are aware that the Terrans have a way of ensuring that even we are not alien to pain, especially with your affliction.”
He followed her strong gaze to his right hand resting on his thigh. It twitched, and Sarek inspected it as though it belonged to someone else’s. In many ways, it did. He curled it into a fist, and it remained still.
He mirrored her cutting tone, shooting his own knife in her direction. “The death itself was short and unremarkable compared to the hundreds of other traitors to the Empire. Undignified, as well.”
“Patricide for the sake of advancement is undignified – a Terran practice.”
Ah, so his mother was displeased. “Advancement of the future for the needs of the many. It was not done selfishly.”
“Your decision has left our clan crippled. The heir of S’chn T’gai branding his own father as a traitor to the Empire – ”
“It was either lose him or lose the heir. Better it be he that is subservient – ”
“Your ignorance does not let you see that he made great strides for our people’s autonomy. After six decades as ambassador, he understood how to skillfully correspond with the Terrans. You, however, lack the experience and subtlety. You would make a poor successor for the Vulcan Ambassador position.”
Sarek measuredly set his cup down on the table. “You seem rather impassioned regarding this topic. It is not uncommon, of course, for the struggles of our esteemed elders in repressing their emotional tendencies only grows with acquired years.”
“It is inconvenient to lose a mate at my age.”
“If I am not mistaken, you have not seen Skon in 183 rotations. It seems unlikely his absence would be felt.”
Sarek knew before he even uttered the words that he was too bold with his tongue, but he sought to maneuver his mother into the corner, just as she had taught him.
T’Lara did not fall for it. She set her cup down, too. “Careful,” she said, face smooth. “Were you anyone but my son, I would cast you down these cliffs for ridding of what is mine.”
Ah, so she did not intend to kill him. He was correct then with his earlier assumption. There was no logic in killing a child - the sole heir, to be specific - and especially for one past her childbearing years. That is not to say that the disposing of a child was uncommon. Sometimes the babe may be born with a deformity or a genetic blight, and it was often seen as more resourceful - logical - to dispose of it before attachments may (inevitably, unfortunately) form. Yet he was aware that killing another’s mate was a serious insult. While revenge itself was not advocated among his people, targeting existing threats was considered very necessary. If one of another clan were to harm Sarek's own, it would be completely reasonable to kill the offender, and thus the offender's clan, to ensure complete safety. Vulcan's history was marred with whole clans being eradicated simply due to association. Challenges and minuscule warfare between clans were once common, yet violence within family was rare.
Still, the atmosphere was undeniably tense, and it did not go unnoticed that Sarek now sat in his father’s usual seat at the table. He had preferred to avoid such provocative conversations and, as his trembling hand shone, he had gone too long without meditating.
A stilted, loud silence fell over the two. His tongue was still singed, and he tasted nothing as he finished his tea in methodic, though unhurried sips. When his cup was empty, he stood. “I will abstain from returning here until an acceptable amount of time passes for us both. Until then – ”
“I did not demand your presence solely to call attention to your questionable judgements, Sarek.” T’Lara’s right eyebrow rose like an executioner’s hand. “Your father’s study requires attention due to his abrupt passing. I am old and physically less able to handle such large items. I have already informed that Terran of yours that you are to stay for the night.”
His own eyebrow rose, mirroring hers. “In this instance, a servant would be the proper choice.”
“Yet my servants are still in Terran custody, being thoroughly questioned for the supposed crimes of your father.” She paused pointedly. “I require this service to be done presently. Thus, you will be adequate as a replacement.”
“Of course.”
Perhaps he was wrong – maybe she truly intended to kill him.
It was nonetheless an undeniable relief to rid himself of her presence. His relationship with his mother, like for many of his people, was as necessary as an administrator in the work field. The job of parent and child was simple. Ensure the S’chn T’gai continuity. Impart a distinguished reputation. Provide an heir.
Affection was certainly not part of the job requirement.
Skon’s study was located at the very back of the complex. The room was unique for sharing a wall with Mount Seleya itself - its whole back wall consisted of rich, auburn stone. Sarek was hardly allowed in here as a child, but he could still remember running his at-the-time small hands over the cool, craggy surface. In his undeveloped mind, Sarek had felt that the stone was alive - that there was the faintest pulse deep within the mountain - but those were the fancies of a child.
His footsteps echoed in the very cold and very dark room, but the following silence that fell after he stopped was even louder. There were no windows, and one could easily mistaken the room for being underground. The dim candlelight he carried offered sufficient illumination over the ransacked room. The wooden cabinets were in pieces, the sole large tapestry was ripped to shreds, and the glass from the electrical lightbulbs glittered across the floor. He doubted the Terrans found anything of note – Skon was barely in this room as it was.
Indeed, the most remarkable thing about the study were the two figures sitting at the desk in the center of the room.
Sarek detested surprises. They only meant a failure on his part in being prepared.
He bowed low. “Magistrate T’Pol.”
The Vulcan sat unashamedly at his father’s large stone chair, the same that has been in his family for generations. She was layered with fine cloths and silks and precious stones. Her gold-silver hair hung straight and strict down to her pointed chin. As the magistrate, T'Pol was essentially Vulcan’s second-in-command, just beneath Consul T'Pau and above the late Ambassador Skon.
Sarek had known her for decades, and while he tolerated this elder, he did not completely approve of her. Her eyes were far too dynamic for a Vulcan, and he had heard her on several occasions raise her voice in the Forum. He had also seen the old holovids of her younger self - all curves and skin and undeniable attempts at seduction. It was disgraceful, and he attributed it on her early years aboard that Terran ship. Only weak Vulcans would crumble under Terran promises of power and pleasure. T'Pol would not have been even an option for magistrate if he were to have a say. However, her past experiences undeniably were valuable for maneuvering the Terran political terrain, and he cannot deny she that she was absolutely ruthless in her approach. Just like a Terran.
Her voice was low and husky for a female, and she spoke as frankly as she did in the Forum. “S’chn T’gai Sarek, your services are required on Terra.”
Surely, he was being punished.
Very little information came from Terra that the Terrans did not want them to know, and even fewer of those sent there - for any reason - returned. Going to Terra was considered undesirable by many sides for many reasons. For one, being away from the clan was abhorring - it was why the Vulcans did not ever expand beyond their system for millennia. Secondly, Terrans did not like having their homeworld tainted with alien lifeforms, and it was also a security risk to drop the mystery of their supposed great planet. Thus, a job relocation to Terra was considered to be akin to exile or death.
“Specify services.”
The Vulcan male standing beside T'Pol stepped forward.
Sarek tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over the male's form. He recognized him as Valek, who, like Sarek, had a high position in the Terran-established government on Vulcan. If Sarek recalled correctly, Valek had suddenly ascended into their ranks just years ago after the mysterious disappearance of one of the previous members. His close relationship with Consul T’Pau had not gone unnoticed by many, and T’Pau undoubtedly had an influence over his rise. One of her playthings, Sarek knew.
This Valek ignored his request and volleyed one of his own. "Confirm that you are proficient in the Vulcan language."
This was a subtly, dangerous question – the Vulcan language was one of the last things outlawed during the Terran Occupation. Thus, his generation was the youngest and last to have received formal instruction and legally be expected to retain some of his knowledge.
It was narrow-sighted of the Terrans, who so despised alien races, to simply eliminate foreign influence. They did not speak or partake in xenolinguistics and have forced their subjugated planets to relinquish their own language. As far as the Terrans knew, Vulcan was a dead language, but Vulcans - even the younglings - were all fluent in a language that one could only speak in silence. Through carefully enacted mind transferals of information, every Vulcan child now learned secretly the Vulcan language and outlawed customs. Ready to be used, the hidden culture lingered beneath the surface.
Sarek offered a short nod.
“As you are aware, the Empire is incredibly secretive about the personnel and workings of their own government. Vulcan is only privy to superficial information about their leaders, but we are aware there is much they are hiding. However, our wise Consul T'Pau entertained one of the Emperor’s esteemed generals a few nights previous. She solicited information regarding the reason for the necessity of a translator.”
Consul T'Pau was their leader, the strongest and most sharp in mind. It was no secret among his people that as consul, T’Pau carried their people’s true loyalties – even over the Emperor, though that was not to be made clear out loud. The whole planet performed under her bidding. Layers upon layers of relay messaging, all passed through their touch telepathy. No one was untouched. Even he, who had never spoked directly to her until now, knew that today’s earlier events were not strictly of his own doing.
“Furthermore, news from our sources on Terra are scattered rumors and whispers that get even more convoluted with every mindmeld relay – the more information is passed among the Vulcan people, the more likely the information becomes tainted with personal associations. However, there is one position that we have heard of, though does not exist in any public record.”
“The Keeper,” finished T'Pau. “Have you heard of such a role?”
“I have not.”
“The Keeper is the Terran title for those who are in charge of knowledge distribution. Essentially, they decide what books and art are to be kept, altered, or destroyed. They influence what parts of history and culture are kept – not just for their own Terran history, but their offworld subjects as well.”
“It is our people’s philosophy that words carry power,” continued Valek. “The Terrans have enough intellect to know that as well, and the Keepers are those who quietly wields words for the Empire’s benefit.”
“How many are there?”
“Uncertain. Logic dictates only a few to maintain secrecy, but enough to share the burden of a quadrant’s worth of knowledge. It is a powerful position.”
“A dangerous position."
Valek nodded. “To the Empire, Keepers are necessary contradictions to their ideals. That is why the role of a Keeper is not public knowledge, not even to their own people. Due to the sensitive nature of their job, we assume Keepers are constantly watched as well.”
“The Empire has ordered that one of our own – one who has high security clearance and is fluent in Vulcan and Terran – be sent to Terra to aid an Keeper. They have not provided further information, but we logically assume that they have discovered Vulcan texts that the Keeper is in need of translating. Sarek, you are the son of the late Vulcan Ambassador and satisfy these requirements. You also have experience with Terrans during your time in the Consul. They will accept you due to your family’s status and influence.”
Sarek paused for a measured second.
“A translator," Sarek said in a perfectly leveled, cool tone - one that was just within the realms of not being considered drawling. "You are requesting I go to Terra to translate books? Is it your wish for me to lie about the translations to protect our traditions?” He found this lack of information stark, and the information already revealed was poorly received by himself. There were many others much more suitable for this role.
“No,” T’Pol answered bluntly. “You will translate accurately. There is little that remains of our writings that we did not allow exist. The only matters you will refrain from revealing are any matters of katras or telepathy, as they have yet to discover our capabilities. However, there should be few, if any, existing pieces of such information. The High Council had ordered the destruction of such texts right before we surrendered. Thus, we expect you to be truthful regarding their Vulcan texts. Entertain them, if you will.”
Valek leaned forward. “This has offered us a very unique opportunity. Not because the existence of the Keeper position, which we have known for decades – but because we have the identity of one of the Keeper. The one you will be assisting.”
Wordlessly, Valek strode purposely towards Sarek, who did not resist when the former placed his hands firmly on his face as one does in an embrace. Valek yanked him into his mind.
The raw stench of salty air –
Hints of blue sky breaking –
Thawing skin and cold-flushed cheeks –
A red door surrounded by white –
Then, a loud voice passing by –
“Good morning, Dr. Grayson.”
Impressions. Those were all that was left from the memory – a stranger’s memory stripped, diluted, and corrupted from being passed from a relay of dozens of Vulcans. Every mind inevitably alters the original with their own perception and thinking. Typically, the memory is often clear, but one coming from as far as Terra could be expected to be so degraded. Yet there was one fragment that echoed in his mind.
“‘Grayson’,” Sarek echoed, as he stepped away from Valek’s icy hold. “An influential name.”
“Yes,” T’Pol agreed. “The Graysons are often credited for the Empire’s astonishing advancement in technology during its rise in the Alpha Quadrant, and they still are heavily intertwined in the current Sato reign. Their private business, Graysons Industries, has a satellite station out in the Raal province on our world, as I am certain you are aware.”
It was in these moments that Sarek was reminded of the deadly accuracy of T’Pol’s words. As I am certain you are aware – how much did T’Pol know about his clan?
“I am only aware of Vice Admiral Marcus Grayson of Starfleet.”
T’Pol revealed a small device in her hand. At her prompting, a small shimmering image hovered over the middle of their circle. A strong, broad man with dark brown hair stood tall and unyielding. His face was marred by a thin line from temple to cheekbone, and his navy uniform with gold embellishments was heavily decorated with an array of medals. His intense eyes gazed at the camera with a flat coldness that not even a Vulcan could denounce. His son stood beside him at the precipice of adulthood. There was a blonde female who sat calmly and serenely, eyes glazed. Lastly was a young girl who appeared nearly 10 years of age. She inherited her father’s strong, proud eyes and brown hair, as well as her mother’s slanted, closed smile.
“This photo was taken fifteen years ago from their last visit to Vulcan when their satellite location first opened, and it is the sole one we have on file of the family. Marcus and his first wife, Rosalyn. The status of Rosalyn has been unknown for the past decade, yet we have heard that Marcus has since remarried – identity unknown. But together, they had his only daughter.”
The image disappeared, and Valek continued, “Amanda Grayson lives a private life as a socialite – very notorious for her luxurious tastes."
“As for her brother?”
"Leon Grayson, maternal line unknown, is the CEO of their family business. He plays an active and public political role in Terra.”
Ah. “Any particular topics that would be of interest?”
T’Pol didn’t repond immediately to Sarek. She first gave a single look towards Valek, who graciously offered a short bow to the magistrate.
Ignoring Sarek, Valek informed the magistrate, “I will await for you.”
Then, Valek walked to the wall that the home shared with the mountain. He put his hand against an indistinct portion of the red stone. Immediately, a clean-cut rectangular portion of the wall sunk silently into the mountain, revealing a dark entranceway.
Sarek never knew such a thing existed in his father’s study.
It wasn’t until Valek slipped away into the mountain’s innards and the stone door shut behind him that T’Pol continued smoothly as though uninterrupted, “There have been of late a significantly increased amount of Starfleet activity through our sector and bases towards the Beta Quadrant. We have furthermore last heard that Leon was recently located on the planet Bajor – which is also along this Alpha-Beta Border. More battleships and cargo than we have seen since the failed Romulan Infiltration 72 years ago.”
“You suspect a dissension.”
“We are expecting an expansion. Try as they might, the Terrans are not technologically proficient enough to allow constant monitoring of transmissions emitted from our entire planet. They can only focus on certain areas at a time. Several transmissions containing sensitive material were sent out towards various directions away from our planet, and only one reading was intercepted by the Terrans and subsequently led to executions.”
“My father.” Sarek privately corrected himself – Skon.
“Indeed. The messages were sent towards the Beta Quadrant. The Terrans could thus be targeting any of the civilizations along the Alpha-Beta border, including the Romulans or Klingons. If this is true, it would be very pertinent for us to know.”
“How would I inform you of my findings?” Am I returning?
T’Pol gracefully side-stepped the implied question. “We will find you.”
"When will I be departing?"
"Tomorrow."
"Has Consul T'Pau reconsidered granting me the ambassador position?"
"I am not privy to all of the consul's decisions."
"Yet you, the magistrate, are here acting as the messenger. Surely she must have made you aware for the reason of her decision to send me rather than someone more suitable."
T'Pol arched her eyebrow. "Are you questioning the Wise One's choice?"
"No," he answered after only a fraction of second in hesitation. "Consul T'Pau is greatest in mind. I simply am uncertain why she is not providing this information directly herself."
“She thought it more constructive for myself to relay the instructions, given my prior experience with Terrans – as well as one Denobulan – on the Enterprise NX-01.”
“A starship of them is quite different to a whole planet.”
“Quite,” she agreed. “Yet surviving ten years in that small spacecraft was nonetheless… an endeavor. Terrans are not to be underestimated.”
“They are volatile, yet I have spent my whole life mastering how to handle them.”
T’Pol arched an eyebrow. “Handling old Starfleet retirees or castaway soldiers? Child, you will find that the ones here – who have just as much to gain as we do in our unique autonomy – are poor representations for the Terrans that await you. I assure you, they will pounce on you like le-matyas to fresh meat. Do not let yourself be taken by their pretty words, which they wield just as sharply as their knives. They spin pretty tales into sparkling, glittering gold thread until it is too late for you to see they’re making a noose - and they will seduce you into put it around your neck yourself.”
"I am not easily seduced."
"Neither was your grandfather," T'Pol said. She stood. “Resilience. Caution. Control. Do not forget who you are, S’chn T’gai Sarek, when they try to mold you with their promises or trick you with false expressions. Remember that they know as much as about us as we know about them. Serve us and begin to right the wrongs of the S’chn T’gai clan.”
Shi'Kahr was still and silent, as if holding its breath. Not even a breeze was carried nor heard. What was more unusual was the pitch-black that cloaked the city, its silhouette only barely discernible due to the bright neighboring planet of T'Kuht suspended in the sky. Perched on the cliffs of Mount Seleya, Sarek deeply inhaled the chill, dry desert air.
There were a few ways to interpret this sudden relocation.
One, he was intentionally and forcibly being removed off the planet. Consul T'Pau had promised him the ambassadorship, as was his right, but this was a complete deviation from that. He could not work for Vulcan on another planet, especially as a book translator. The irony was not lost on him either - it was his father, Skon, after all that first translated their sacred Teachings of Surak for the Terrans to devour. Retribution, perhaps, for the growing list of duplicities his clan had a hand with?
Two, Sarek was being trusted for this seemingly delicate mission with large ramifications. It would be of great service to his people if he were to send off information regarding the growing Starfleet forces at the Alpha-Beta Border. If a war was coming, they needed to be ready to protect their culture in whatever means necessary. It would be an honor for him to assist in this way.
And lastly... Sarek would gain an unprecedented amount of knowledge.
Knowledge about the maybe-war.
Knowledge about what laid amongst the stars that he had dedicated decades of his life to as an astrophysicist prior to his entry into politics. He had always had a desire for space travel, but the prospect of actual space travel never seemed likely for him. The few Vulcans that managed to get off world were typically prisoners, traitors, or (he suspected) slaves, and he had yet to hear of one single Vulcan that was cleared for off-world transport, even Consul T’Pau herself.
And knowledge about living with Terrans. The prospect seemed unappealing at first, he admitted, but it was very rare that one is offered to go to the home planet of their oppressors. He spent his whole life taught about how to navigate and handle the soldiers stationed on his planet. They were on nearly every corner, either stoic and brutal or drunk and inept. What kind of planet could spawn such entitled and volatile specimens? Propaganda videos showed the antithesis of his own – a blue orb where there was more water than land. Cold and blue and wet. He had never seen an ocean before.
It was an opportunity of a lifetime, but a short one if he was not careful. If he did not manipulate and read the Terrans as well as, if not better than, S'chn T'gai Skon. If Sarek could endure the home planet of the Terran Empire, then surely, he will be a greater and better ambassador. Furthermore, it was not as though he truly had a choice when it came to the demands of his consul. T'Pau had led her people for decade, allowing their planet to experience an unprecedented amount of autonomy that not a single other species enjoyed under Terran rule. Under her leadership, they will surely continue to do so, and Sarek will play his part in ensuring it.
There was an anticipation (hunger, was it?) stirring in his chest, and his blood began to pulse in greater strength - just for a second, until he swiftly stifled the unacceptable physiological response. No, he'd rather call it curiosity, an acceptable drive for a high-standing Vulcan such as himself.
In the distance, a le-matya's haunting howl pierced through the desert and rang across all of Shi'Kahr, beckoning its brethren to come join.
It was time for a feast.
Notes:
Hello everyone! Thank you all for giving this story a chance, and I hope you will continue to enjoy it! I plan to update it every 1-2 weeks! As always, kudos and comments especially keeps me going.
I do want to write this as the overall TRIGGER WARNING for the entire work. I am not planning on adding trigger warnings for every chapter due to the overall dark nature of the work, but I will say most AO3 triggers are NOT enacted/forced upon my main characters (I don't like rape, etc to propel a story) but certainly there will be themes mentioned. Please let me know in the comments or messages if you have any concerns for TW that would limit your experience with this story! If you have read A Case Study (my Amanda/Sarek origins fic), you'll find that my characters including Amanda/Sarek are very differently from ACS. This story is a lot more complex, and I'm super proud of how it came out. So be prepared - as a final warning, this is a MIRROR fic and it is DARK. Here, the worst reflection is brought to life. In other words, the best characteristics of a person is distorted and corrupted in the Mirror Universe. So I understand if it's not everyone's cup of tea!
Enjoy it or hate it? Comment! Find me on Tumblr (@redrose689)! I'd love to get the chance to speak to everyone of you <3
Chapter Text
>>> LONG-RANGE TRANSMISSION
>>> RECEIVED ON STARDATE 2211.36
To: Commander Marcus Grayson.
I have spoken to the consul at your behest, yet her answer remains unchanged.
While we concur that establishing a base here would be a fine honor, this does not affect our assessment that our planet would be ill-equipped in acting as the setting for your objectives. Vulcan is not only sensitive to disruptions such as deep drilling (which would disrupt our electromagnetic fields and lead to increase in electrical storming, et cetera), but Vulcans’ greater gravity would skew your Terra-based measurements and machinery. Furthermore, the plans of the base that your company has sent is incomplete. Whether this was intentional or not does not detract from the futility of your desire.
These, among 63 other points, are all outlined in our previously sent assessment of the base’s plans, to which we have not received a response to. In the unlikely, yet still probable, chance that you have not received it, I have attached it to this file as well.
In conclusion, we recommend assessing another planet that is more hospitable to weapon testing. The system of Andoria, for example, is an excellent option (further detailed in page 142 of assessment).
Your loyal vassal to the Terran Empire,
Ambassador Skon
When Sarek was a child, Skon would take him every night to a cave on the north side of Mount Seleya and order him to sit on the cold, rough ground. This would be followed by an uncomfortable pressure against his temples, like a parasite worming its way in, where Skon would press his fingertips and reach into his mind. He showed Sarek many things. The long history of his people. The philosophies of Surak. The traditions and rites that could no longer be done under the Terrans' watchful eyes.
All until Sarek’s head ached and his fingertips went numb.
Most importantly, Skon showed him life before the Terran Occupation. Their family clan had practiced intergalactic politics for many generations, and his father had seen 13 planets outside their system that ranged drastically in sizes and makeup. Not a single world could compare to Vulcan, nor did any look like each other. One was a gas giant with whorls of indigo clouds, and another was an ice moon with crystal vegetation. All vivid and pulsing and beyond what he himself has ever seen before.
But the planet in front of the Aurelius starship – Sarek’s first exoplanet in the flesh – was a myriad of grays. Great spirals of silver whirled over its covered surface, and he could not see a hint of its reported oceans beneath the ever-present layer of clouds. Spinning and shifting fast underneath them like the sands of Vulcan. The side facing Sol was blindingly white - like the smooth surface of a pearl, while the other was as dark as charcoal. Hovering miles above the atmosphere were specks of black scattered equidistantly from each other like fleas on fur, and upon closer inspection, he recognized the characteristic disk shape of the imperial starships. There were dozens that made up the Terran Defense Grid.
Terra did not appear so vicious as Sarek thought it would. It appeared like a sphere of dense mist suspended in space, as though a large hand could simply swat through it. It was smaller than Vulcan, duller than Vulcan. This was, of course, a preliminary observation.
"You," barked one of the soldiers over the cacophony. His hard eyes were directed towards him. "Over here."
Sarek stepped forward, stepping away from the crowd consisting predominately of xenoforms.
He did not expect a fine, lavish trip, but neither did he expect to be treated like cattle. He was a high-standing servant of the empire - part of the top-ranking officials in Vulcan and soon-to-be third in command of his planet, yet he spent the entire 9-day voyage in a windowless cell. It was modestly equipped with a single floor mattress, a toilet, and a sonic shower. He was given food once daily, which was perfectly adequate for himself, though his rather loud neighbor (Sarek learned it was an Andorian during one of its ramblings) often complained how it was not enough. The Andorian also demanded that it can see its mate and kids, but by the third day, Sarek had heard a pair of heavy-set footsteps enter its cell followed by a muted, buzzing zap. A thud had followed, and Sarek did not hear any more distractions next to him for the remainder of the journey.
It was a relief. Sarek preferred the silence.
While the conditions were not respectable for his status, he did not require much for the sake of comfort. His only regret, perhaps, was that besides this brief glimpse of Terra, he did not see the stars as he thought he would.
The crowd shifted as the soldiers herded them into lines, with only scuffles and footsteps audible. Each line was placed in front of a black, unmarked door, above which were red lights that blinked periodically across the entire length of the wall, casting them in its warm shade. Every time one went off, the door would open and shut behind the person who entered.
Still, the smell was atrocious, and he could only suspect it was sourced from the handful of Telerites in the mix. Sarek did not think they would be as hideous as his father had shown.
This was the first time Sarek truly saw another species, not including the Terrans, for himself. This was due to the empire's agenda to ensure that their subjugated planets have minimal interaction with one another. Yet Terrans were late to the political stage of the intergalactic affairs. Before their sudden ascent, the several systems of the Alpha Quadrant were already familiar with one another. Relationships were far from amiable - they consisted largely of skirmishes and wars and trades and surveillance - but neither was it so extreme as current affairs. Thus through the passed memories of his late father, Sarek easily recognized the blue-skinned Andorians with their antennas and shifty, paranoid eyes, and the putrid stench of the Tellerites.
The Andorians and Tellerites were, by legal definition, slaves, as well as the Aenars and Orions. They were sold and traded and utilized for more menial purposes, and their planets were ransacked for fuel and technology.
Denobulans were deemed 'servants' - they often assisted in research, medicine, or other higher specialty fields and enjoyed a freedom the previously mentioned races did not, though they had very limited say over the affairs of their home planet.
Vulcans were of even greater status. As 'vassals', they were recognized to be of a marginally greater status than the forementioned xenoforms in terms of rights. Their autonomy was unique. Their government was led by Consul T'Pau, who worked closely with the Vulcan Ambassador to ensure Terra's needs were addressed. Terra kept a close eye on its 'like-minded' neighbor, and his people were careful to ensure that the Terrans were content to remain as such.
So, unlike the other alien races that the Empire had swallowed whole, Sarek was led to the very side - he was the only Vulcan on the ship as far as he could tell. There was no line in front of his unmarked door, and it did not take long for the light in front of him to flash red. He stepped forward, and the door slid up in a blink. Upon crossing over, it fell shut behind him like an axe of a guillotine.
The temperature dropped unpleasantly when he entered the room - no, it was a narrow hall. A long, dark strip with no furniture or fixtures. The only light came from a small, circular platform on the floor located at the far wall.
High above the platform was a single window, where Sarek could make out a dark, broad silhouette of a male humanoid standing motionlessly.
A modulated, artificial, and feminine voice echoed melodically above his head. "Walk to the end of the hall."
He stepped forward, and immediately, blue lasers appearing from all sides zipped across his moving form and hovered over identifying points such as his facial features. It felt not unlike the sensation of breaths over his skin, as it recorded his movement and his appearance, undoubtedly storing such data for identification.
"Sarek Schn Tgai.
Location of Birth: Shikahr, Vulcan.
Date of Birth: 2165.462
Age: 69 Sol rotations
Confirm this information is correct."
"I confirm."
Sarek reached the end of the hall where he stopped in front of the transporter. The lasers shut off.
Sarek studied the still figure standing up above, but its face was mostly indiscernible in the shadows. The silhouette of a large Type I phaser in its arms was visible upon closer inspection. When the voice reappeared in the speakers above him, the figure's jaw did not move.
"State your purpose."
"Business, on the request of Consul T'Pau of Vulcan."
"What city will you be residing?"
"San Francisco."
"That name is obsolete. The military stronghold of Terra is now anointed as the Eternal City."
"On Vulcan, we know it as San Francisco."
Surely the computer program was mistaken. All the propaganda videos that he had watched since childhood and the Terran-designed history curriculum referred to city as San Francisco. He never even heard of the Eternal City until now.
"The name is obsolete," the voice repeated smoothly. "Stand on the transporter."
"Clarify where I am being beamed.”
"Stand on the transporter."
For the first time since he's entered, the figure shifted.
Sarek stepped on the metal platform, and by the time he blinked, the world spun and gleamed, accompanied by the sensation of ice slipping down his spine.
There were a few seconds when he was here and there. Through a fading, rippling force field of blue light, there was the dark room with the figure watching above him, and there was his first glimpse of Terra.
For a moment, Sarek thought he was wrongly transported back to the courtyard of Vulcan's Imperial Forum. The same proud, lined columns with its token, engraved entablatures offering shade - except everything the colors were inverted. Obsidian metal instead of white marble - just as cold as the Aurelian. In between every other column hung a strip of red cloth with the woven insignia of the Empire, as well as a Terran soldier, each one with a gleaming golden badge.
It seemed like a waste of resources to have so many - fifty-two, he counted - stationed out in this empty courtyard. He saw no sign of the other xenoforms on the Aurelian, despite his transporter being only one of six at the courtyard's center. They were positioned in a circle, at the center of which was a single statue made of pure gold. It consisted of three figures of the same Terran male joined at the hips to face outward. Curiously, all three were covered with a sheet of marble carved so skillfully that it appeared wet and fluid, clinging onto the skin of its faces. It provided some amount of anonymity, but the person was clearly based on the ideal Terran male, with obvious power chiseled within the carefully defined muscle. One of the three was standing with its hand resting over its breast. The next had its hand stretched out in salut. The last was the only one with its head bowed, but there was a knife protruding from the center of its chest - the location of the Terran heart.
The final sense to return to Sarek was touch. The briefly numbed nerves quickly desensitized to feel the coolness of a wayward breeze. It stung his cheeks, as though tiny grains of burning sand were pelting his face. The smell of the air was unamiable and foreign – putrid, like sulfur. Sarek's face upturned to the sky - up to the dense layer of gray clouds. His pupils adjusted as necessary to allow him to clearly make out slivers of bright silver where some of the Sol's rays attempted to piece through the otherwise impervious barrier of clouds. If this temperature was during the day - noon to be exact - then he was unenthused to see what the air becomes in the dark.
There was no warmth. No light. No salty air or blue or green -
The glossy black ground beneath him suddenly illuminated a path straight to the singular road at the end, where a black vehicle awaited.
The vehicle was unlike what Sarek had seen before. It did not hover above the ground; rather it had four wheels. It was primitive in design, but the gold embossed onto the door handles and the rim of the wheels suggested high status. He was aware that the Terran Empire saw these tedious contraptions to be symbolic of wealth, but it was utterly insensible. Ground travel was the stuff of the Dark Ages, the time before logic.
A Kelpien slave – marked clearly by the brand on his neck – opened the door for Sarek, revealing inside a female with striking red hair and lips.
He did not think humans were capable of such coloring. Surely it must’ve been due to application of chemicals? A bronze imperial badge glinted on the woman's bosom, where her cleavage was put on display with her tight, lowcut bodice. Her bountiful flesh appeared soft and smooth - ill-equipped for the Vulcan's rough terrain but perfect for Terra, where its inhabitants were clearly untested with extreme heat and UV-ray exposure. She was young, delectably fresh, and undoubtedly hungry for opportunity.
The girl's teeth flashed bright white as her high-pitched voice rang with a strange drawl, “Well, well. Isn’t this just a blast? It is incredibly rare that we have such high-esteemed Vulcan visitors to our magnificent Eternal City, the blessed center of culture and prosperity as bestowed by our Emperor Sato. Come on in!”
As he slid into the seat across from her, the vehicle soon began to move. The whole structure began to shake over the uneven road, and Sarek kept his hands firmly on his thighs. This ground transportation was unnecessarily uncomfortable, but Terrans took placed value on many strange things.
She stretched her hand out. “You may call me Marissa. I work in the administrator's office at the Weapon’s Sector, and I am here to ensure your transition to Terra is smooth as can be! Come on in!”
A Terran rarely shook hands with xenoforms. So much as brushing against a Terran was always interpreted as an act of hostility on his own planet. Was this more commonly accepted here, or was this the first of many tests that awaited him here?
He accepted the handshake. “I come to serve.”
It was his first contact with a Terran resident, and it was also disquieting. While the aura of minds felt differently to every Vulcan, like the unique preference to a song or food, Marissa was far too bright. She pulsed like a drum in his mind, and he sought relief by swiftly pulling back from her baby-soft hands.
Her teeth flashed as she grinned, though Sarek felt a contradicting mixture of contempt and mirth radiating from her touch. “How charming. How was the journey?"
"Adequate."
Marissa's laugh rang like a bell. "Aren't you just adorable! The Empire is always so blessed to have such such well-mannered Xenos on its great planet. Now of course, a brief history of the Eternal City, née San Francisco – where the gears of our great Empire spin."
She tapped on the tinted window. "Long before we shot for the stars, the Eternal City was renowned in our honorable history for its timeless innovations. From the humble beginnings of electricity to starships, our way of life completely evolved within a couple centuries. Under great Terran families, so much of our sciences, technology, and discoveries have originated here that have led to our unprecedentedly quick entry into intergalactic affairs. Here, our formidable Starfleet was born as well, breeding fine soldiers to keep our Empire safe and secure for us all!”
Sarek had heard this introduction word for word from the tapes released by the Terran Empire to teach at their academies. It was a vague, meaningless introduction that revealed little. He did not bother with a response, as he gazed out the dark-tinted windows.
Outside the Intergalactic Travel Station was miles of sprawling, barren land. Sarek could see the far ranges of mountains and hills that rose far higher than those of Vulcan with its stronger gravity. Not a single green sprout was seen in sight. Just dry, cracked dirt. Although not spoken of in their programmed history, Vulcan knew Terra was long riddled with wars and bombings. Time and time again, sectors and nations fought bitterly to emerge as leader of the Empire. Stores of exhaustive resources such as coal, oil, trees were nearly obliterated, and the planet was on the brink of natural destruction. The nuclear bombings further destroyed lives and the environmental landscape. Even now, some part of the planet still bore its scars on its lands and sky.
Soon, the wasteland transitioned into a scattering of low, dilapidated huts. Sarek initially thought it was a ghost town, barren and forgotten, but through the windows and holes of these shacks, he could see dirty, hungry faces quietly stare at the sleek vehicle as they passed.
“The Outer Rim,” chirped Marissa. “The labor forces who keep on giving! Of course, our merciful emperor gives them access to education, and hard work is certainly rewarded. Every year, the top five percent are offered a chance to work inside the walls - and maybe even in the Inner Ring! Anybody with the will and passion can take advantage of such opportunities.”
Or a way to foster competition and animosity among the civilians. Without a sense of community, they would be too busy squabbling among each other for survival rather than their oppression. In typical Terran tendencies, they likely murdered their way to the top.
In his opinion, it would be more efficient to simply cull the population. It was a waste of resources and unsightly for these people to live in these subpar conditions and squandering away among the mud and dirt right outside its great Eternal City. Sarek would consider such an act to be even merciful. But the Empire was not merciful, and the more he considered it the more logical it was for these people to remain out here. Serving on Starfleet was an honor with many benefits and temptations. Thus, many joined the institution - and many didn't return. The Empire had to make up the loss, and these people presented an obvious and inexpensive solution.
In the horizon was a structure appearing not unlike mountains in height, but it was too smooth, white, and homogenous for it to be so. The marble – the same found at the Imperial Forum of Vulcan – glinted proudly even without Sol's direct light.
Their vehicle slowed to a stop by the gates, where soldiers with phasers in hand stared at the vehicle with no warmth. Sarek could see more motionless guards at the very top of the walls. The windows of their vehicle lowered, and a guard wordlessly held out his hand.
Marissa stuck out her PADD. The scanner beeped, and the light turned green.
As Marissa pulled it back, the guard stared at Sarek. Sarek gazed back, and the woman glanced between them.
“Oh, gosh!” she started. Her amusement was obnoxious, and she chuckled as she pulled out a thin glass screen the size of an identification card and gave it to the guard. “Here you go, sweetie. This is for Mister Sunshine over there,” she said to the guard, winking at Sarek.
Both Sarek and the guard ignored her, and at the guard’s signaling, the vehicle began to drive through the gates. Immediately, the vehicle leveled out and no longer jostled over dirt roads.
Marissa handed Sarek the smaller PADD. “Your credentials and identification are all on here – take this with you everywhere, of course. It would be rather awkward if you were discovered without it,” she advised warmly. “Minor offenses such as that would be punishable by agonizer appointments.”
Without skipping a beat, she pointed out the windows. “Middle Ring. Essential personnel – the merchants, healers, and the like – reside out here in this adorable part of town. We offer the very best and efficient public transportation systems so that they may ensure our city keeps running. Xenos may use them of course - there's a back cart just for you lot!”
In the city itself, the roads were smoothly paved. There was also no hint of brown dirt, only vibrant green from grass and trees with clean white roads that became more frequent the deeper they went in. The humbly sized houses covered the swells of the great hills. Here, inside the walls, there was no evident poverty or hunger. Neither were there many cars, and anytime a Terran saw the vehicle with the Empire’s flag fluttering at the front, they stopped and saluted the flag. They all wore clean, Terran styled clothing, except for the guards clad in red.
Strangely, Sarek saw many guards in the streets – just as much, if not more, than there were in Vulcan. He made vocal note of this to Marissa.
“Safety is paramount in the Empire!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide as she lazily fanned herself with her purse. “Although crimes are rare here, they offer a feeling of stability and protection.”
“Of course,” he replied, as he studied the large phasers carried in the hands of every guard, who always walked in pairs.
Soon, the buildings turned from concrete and stone to glinting expanses of windows trimmed with gold. Sleek cars not unlike his became more common, and before his very eyes, he saw one vehicle transform – its four wheels smoothly folded inward under the belly, and the vehicle began to hover the ground until it flew upward toward the skies. Marble walkways lined the clean roads. The dull, more neutral clothing of the common people changed to elaborate daywear, not unlike what this Marissa wore. The rich walked the streets in high spirits, laughing as jewelry weighed down their necks and glistened under the sun. Trailing behind many of them were Kelpiens, Orions, and more clad in grey that signified their slave status. Although he could not see from here, Sarek knew he would find the Terran insignia on their necks.
“You’ll be staying closer here in the inner parts of the city where government workers live as well. A super nice area - lucky! Unfortunately, you won’t be able to get rides as nice as this one, but your place of residence is only a convenient five-minute walk away from your work!”
“That is sufficient.”
“Of course, you’ll be living among the other Xenos,” she said merrily. “You’re lucky though! With your clearance, curfew is sundown rather than 6:00pm. Of course, you will need your PADD in case any of our diligent guards should question your whereabouts.” Marissa clapped her hands. “Ah, here we are – your home for your stay!”
Tucked in between two ornate, gold encrusted buildings, was a modest brownstone apartment complex of ten floors. He followed Marissa as she led him through the iron gates the creaked loudly from the force of her push. Her unreasonably tall heels clicked against the ground. The Kelpien driver trailed behind as well while carrying his baggage.
Marissa plucked his PADD from his hand and waved it across the scanner by the front doors. “Now, for your safety, there will always be two guards in the lobby. They’ll be checking with your comings and goings to ensure your whereabouts for your own protection! It’s not always safe for people like you to be out on the streets.”
In the modest lobby were indeed two red Empire officials who stared at the duo as they reached the large stairway and began the ascent. Sarek discreetly memorized their faces and the time of their shifts.
“Fourth floor – Room 409,” she chirped, as they reached the end of the hall. Once again, she used his PADD against the control pad by the door. It emitted a soft beep, and Sarek heard the faint click of the door unlocking.
Marissa opened the door, revealing a quaint living room. It opened up to a small kitchen. There was a single room door at the side.
She led him through the door. “Your bedroom.”
A standard sized bed, a desk, and another door leading to the bathroom. Hands behind his back, he glanced out the sole window. It led to the dark alley behind the buildings.
He turned when Marissa’s voice appeared behind him. “Now, of course you will receive a standard number of credits every week. Just bring your PADD with you to the market or food stalls, and they will mark your deductions from there!” She glanced at his simple Vulcan robes. “I recommend you purchase some more acceptable clothing. There is no standardized uniform for you – thank goodness – but formalwear is good. But for today, what you’re wearing now will suffice!”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “I am not scheduled to begin working until tomorrow.”
“Of course, but your benefactor has requested for an initial meeting with you. Nothing to be worried about,” she added, unnecessarily. She checked her watch, biting her lip. “In fact, we better head out to the Weapon’s Sector now. It won’t do to be late for your first meeting!”
As he followed her out toward the vehicle, Sarek spoke plainly. “I misunderstand. Why the Weapon’s Sector?”
“You’ll be working there, Mister,” she said with a charming laugh. “In the heart of the Municipal District, right where the governing of our city and empire takes place. Where else would you be?”
A profession that dealt with books would hardly have a place in a weapon’s facility.
“Well,” she began, her foot jiggling as they rolled away. “Are you excited to start work?”
“I am always ready to serve the Empire.”
Marissa nodded emphatically. “Lovely to hear. What aspect are you most excited about?”
It was then, that Sarek had a clear realization that this Marissa did not know the reasons for his stay. She was simply a middleperson who played a singular role of getting him here. Like all Terran’s actions, she was now personally motivated to gain insight on his strange, unusual presence. Sarek did not notice her icy gaze until now.
His tone was remarkably colder. “To serve the Empire.”
Marissa hardly blinked, but her answering smile was tight.
The Municipal District was a complex of buildings spanning across four blocks. Every building was uniquely designed. Some were as white as bone, while others were black as oil. There were a couple crimson towers that speared out from the ground like knives. The walkways were composed of white, pristine tile, where mostly Terrans clad in shades of black, grey, and red walked. Surprisingly, there was quite a few xenoforms comprising mostly of Denobulans and Vulcans, who strode in long, brisk steps. None looked at him.
But what was most striking was not its sharp, threatening architecture, but that every inch of available ground was steeped in red blossoms. It was a sea of red that rolled softly in the breeze, which smelled of salt and honey. Each wine-colored petal was unnaturally pristine and identical. Likely products of genetic breeding.
"Red poppies," chimed Marissa, as she spun to face Sarek while walking backwards. "The imperial flower. Have you ever seen such beautiful buds? Our diligent Caretakers ensure that every single seed is top notch quality!"
They walked deeper into the complex, until the poppies continued to grow up a sharp incline - up a building shaped as a colossal pyramid. Its other three faces were made of dark, almost black glass that reflected the outside world, including the poppy ground and grey skies. It was a dizzying effect of reds and blacks both merging and reflecting onto the white grounds around it. The entire air around the pyramid felt warped, as though every glass was somehow misaligned or tilted by a fraction. Despite the fragility of its appearance, it had a subtle, malicious quality.
"The Weapon Sector," introduced Marissa, and at her prompting, he used his PADD to gain access into the structure.
The detectors were similar to that of the Aurelian - red lasers that darted over his body and face as he followed Marissa in. Two dozen guards stood at attention at the sides, and he could feel their gazes on him as he stepped into the center of the pyramid.
It was astonishingly empty - there were no offices or levels visible. Instead, the inside of the pyramid was entirely filled with what surely must be a projection - it was the Alpha Quadrant. A mass of nebula clouds and pinprick lights blinking as the projection slowly rotated. Sarek could immediately spot the three-star system of his home world. Besides the northern wall covered in poppies, all the other faces of the pyramid allowed distorted, tinted light to stream through.
Sarek watched as workers entered from either of the 3 entrances at the pyramid's sides, and without slowing, they'd speak - "Office 204.1" or "Level 28 Conference Room" - and within the same stride, their bodies would be enveloped by the rays of transporter beams on the spot. By the time of their next step, they were gone without a trace.
Curious. Sarek had never seen transporters function for a specimen in motion. There must be a computer with artificial intelligence directing the transporter traffic – some sound detector to listen for the location a specific individual would request, and then pick them out amongst all the others. This was a fascinating advancement that Sarek had yet to witness or hear of in any part of the quadrant.
The lobby was filled with a mixture of Starfleet officials in uniform, as well as those in civilian clothing. The males often wore suits, while the females wore a mix of pantsuits, dresses, skirts. The females seemed fond of the tall shoewear that Marissa wore, though in a variety of heights.
Marissa led him to north side, where there was a single, long kiosk manned by half a dozen guards.
“Hey, Joe,” she purred, purposely leaning forward on the counter that separated her and this ‘Joe’ fellow. Sarek watched with masked curiosity as this simple move, which pointedly brought attention to her bosom, caused the large, burly man to turn remarkably pink. Joe looked like every guard around them – intimidating and unforgiving, but clearly, Marissa had him wrapped around her finger.
Without glancing at Sarek, Marissa stretched an expectant hand out. Sarek immediately gave her his PADD.
“Can you get our little green boy all sorted out for me?”
Joe’s expression hardened with ill-masked contempt as he took in the Vulcan, but it dropped as soon as he glanced back at the smiling Marissa. “Of course, dollface.”
“How’s your wife doing?”
“She’s doing well.” Joe’s voice dropped an octave lower. It would’ve been too quiet for a human to hear, but Sarek could hear his lustful words quite clearly. “She misses ya, you know.”
Marissa giggled. “She’s a sweetheart. The three of us do have some fun together.”
Mercifully, it was not long before Marissa sashayed up to Sarek with his PADD in hand. He extended his hand to take it, but she boldly pressed up against him. Her sickly-sweet perfume overwhelmed his delicate senses, as well as the human heat that radiated from her. Sarek ignored his preference to push her as he looked steadfastly back at the Terran female.
“All yours,” Marissa purred pressing the PADD to Sarek’s chest. “You should now have access to the necessary facilities with this. Whenever you need anything, Sunshine, be sure to give me a call. I added in my contact to make things easier.”
Sarek swiftly acquired his PADD, taking great care to avoid touching her skin. “You have my gratitude.”
Her amusement evident, she pulled away. “Joe and his buddy here will lead you to where you need to go. They’re sweeties, so I have full faith in them.”
Marissa parted a last wink at the unamused Sarek, blew a kiss towards Joe, and then spun away.
Joe and his ‘buddy’, despite Marissa’s words, were anything but welcoming. Sandwiched between the two and their large phasers, Sarek walked towards the center of the pyramid.
He made three steps when Joe uttered, "Level 47," and the world spun once more until he found himself in a white, sterile hall.
As far as he could see, Level 47 comprised only a single walkway. There were no windows, and only one door. He did not know if he was above ground or down in the soils of Terra, though the latter seemed more likely. It was disorienting to find his sense of location disturbed. A loss of direction on his planet, where deserts spanned hundreds of miles across, was a sign of impending death.
A loud voice passing by – “Good morning, Dr. Grayson.”
Sarek found himself caught in a perplexing moment of familiarity, despite never in his life before today having stepped foot here. Yet he recognized this hallway, or at least a mental imprint of it. It was a stranger's memory he carried, undoubtedly from the one T'Pol had shown him days prior. Even the sounds of his foot and the guards' behind him echoing against the white tile floors was loud, familiar. The air was dry and stale, not unlike the air in Vulcan, and as cold as a fridge.
Although Sarek had never physically set foot in this building, he knew what awaited him at the end of the hall before even looking. It was like recollecting an old dream from his childhood, back before he began meditating. Surreal, yet stamped into the back on his mind like a sizzling brand.
An unmarked, violently red steel door. Above it was a single, steady light glowing scarlet like an eye.
It was almost garish when surrounded by all the blinding white, and his pupils constricted in response. As they approached the door, Sarek thought it logical to consider that perhaps this was how he was to meet his end. He expected a museum, or even just an office space. Not whatever… this was.
Sarek moved to allow the guards access to the control panel at the side, but Joe clicked his tongue in an irritated fashion and nodded to his hand. "Your PADD."
"Do you not have access to the facilities?"
"Few have clearance for Forty-Seven," Joe answered impatiently. "Now, move it."
He raised the clear sheet of glass up to the control pad.
Click.
The sound of the lock echoed down the hall, and a silent beat passed. Then on its own, the steel door swung open with a heavy groan.
Sarek stepped in and paused when his guards did not follow. They stood a careful 3 feet away.
"Clearance," explained the other guard with a shrug.
The door shut like a tomb behind him, leaving him in a dark hallway very similar to that of the Aurelian. He did not slow his stride when lasers appeared out of the walls and swept over his entire form.
What kind of occupation regarding books required such substantial security measures? Not even the guards of the Weapon Sector were even allowed inside. Perhaps, Leon Grayson was a paranoid man - all of them were. Sarek's dealt with plenty of Terran males across his lifetime. Most were more boy than man - all bravado and flourishes meant to instill terror but reminded him no more than a posturing aylak reptile. Meek and cowardly. Only some were truly formidable in power and mind. If the Grayson reputation holds, then he must expect the latter kind.
No matter. Sarek never failed to match their strides. It was a match at most, and a game at best.
At the end was a fine, glossy wooden door that appeared out of place surrounded by all the sleek metal. Its knob shone with an unblemished gold, and he twisted it open easily.
Inside, a woman looked up and stood.
In between Skon's nightly lessons, Sarek also attended day schooling.
It was there that "young, budding Vulcans" until the age of fourteen were taught about the great Terran Empire. The course consisted primarily of Terran history (undoubtedly altered, of course), but some days were focused on culture. He was aware that most of his classmates found these lessons particularly dull and inconsequential, but Sarek was... fascinated.
Mildly.
It was in this class that Sarek watched his first and only film. It was ancient, the teacher had told them, back from the twentieth century when technology first began to peak. Back when their videos could not be seen with color other than black and white. The people were 'acting', she had said. Lying, as he understood it. Regardless, he was shone a world so alien and backwards, that he could not fathom how the doltish Terrans in the video were of the same breed as those who executed his people weekly.
The storyline was atrocious, but he found their demeanor to be of interest. It was clear that certain movements and speech implied certain cultural cues that carried meaning as much as their words did – a flattening of their lips, a furrow of the eyebrow, or a tilt of the head. The actions felt very purposeful, almost predetermined – which they were. Written in script, apparently.
The woman in front of him resembled those black-and-white Terrans in the screen in both movement and physique. Her silk, copper-red dress draped over her form like liquid. She was perhaps average in height for her species and sex, yet still too short and too soft to be considered ideal in Vulcan standards which tended to appreciate the tall and lined figures. The pallor of her skin was associated with sickness on his planet, and it was only exacerbated by the dark chestnut shade of her hair. Her strands were carefully, immaculately and strictly styled in glossy waves.
He acknowledged that was a certain symmetry and distinctiveness of her face that caught the eye, even despite its alienness. Smooth and upturned. Her cheekbones were high but round and tinted like apples. Her pink lips and dark eyebrows were both full and startlingly on her pale skin. A small, intricately crafted blossom made of gold and red gems was pinned over her heart in place of the gold badge he had seen on every other Terran.
Sarek recognized her immediately, despite only having briefly seen the photo of her eleven-year-old self. She has changed drastically since, but Sarek was not known to be careless in detail.
She stopped at the end of the table closest to him, and for a moment, they both regarded one another. She leaned back against the table's edge and swept her eyes over his form in a manner that felt far more invasive than the detectors outside.
It was then that he first concluded that Amanda Grayson was not of the meek variety - nor was she male, for that matter.
"You're late."
Her voice, however, was surprisingly clear and low in pitch. It would've been almost pleasant, if it wasn't for the lilting way she spoke as all Terrans did. Every vowel rising or falling - as if about to lift into song. These inflections, even hers, were grating to his ear.
"I was not aware my presence was requested for today."
"Oh, I'm not talking about today. I asked for you three months ago."
"Confirm that it is you I am assisting.”
"Are you expecting someone else?"
He expected her brother. Sarek did not like being caught unawares - it showed a failing in his part. Regardless, it would be imprudent to reveal that was not the case. As far as the Empire knew, the identity of Keepers was not public knowledge. "I simply seek clarification.”
Amanda smiled – a small upturn of her closed lips. Her eyes were notably steady. “I’m Dr. Amanda Grayson, but you may address me as Amanda.”
“That would be unusual,” Sarek remarked. “To call a superior by their familiar name.”
“Yes, but I find that it saves the time and the trouble. There are, after all, quite a few Graysons in this little building,” she said with a quick flash of her teeth. She straightened and graciously gestured to the table. “Now then, why don't you come join me?”
Sarek has been around Terrans long enough to identify a request versus a command. He followed her to the table and finally scanned his surroundings.
It seemed almost as though he himself had entered that old television box. In stark contrast to the white sterile halls outside with modern security features, the inside was significantly outdated. Nearly everything – the floor, the ceiling, and the never-ending shelves that lined the whole room in its entirety – was composed of a wood tinted like honey. There was a patterned rug and old-styled chairs and a chaise lounge that were placed around the room, as if to impart an impression of a home. In the corner was a bronze contraption of unknown purpose with a spiraling horn.
The room had four, equally-length walls that rose three stories and were filled with endless amount of books. Looking above, he could see each of the upper levels overlooked down to the central table where they sat. Directly across the entrance from where Sarek entered were two more unmarked, red doors. In between was a wide reflective mirror that showed their two forms, albeit somewhat distorted.
In short, it was a library. A museum dedicated to old, surely outdated books. Libraries were relics. In the digital age that pervaded the sector, both Terrans and Vulcans relied on devices such as PADDs to communicate, read, study, and work. Books and ink were no different than stone tools.
He sat on one side of the table, while she sat on the other. Her posture was also strict and straight, further confirming a higher upbringing. In between them, a small metal box and a stack of two unmarked books sat on the wooden surface. He noted she wore a pair of silk gloves.
Now that he was closer, he could note that her eyes were a deep and dark shade of brown, not unlike her hair. He had initially assumed they were black, which was clumsy of him. Unlike Terrans, Vulcans’ irises ranged from black to the occasional pale grey. He and his mother shared the same charcoal shade. Any other color was seen as aberrant and undesired.
“What should I call you?”
“Sarek would suffice.”
Her smile widened. “Is that a familiar name?”
“It is,” he relented. “But most Vulcan clan names are unpronounceable to the Terran tongue.”
“Well, Sarek." She said his name with a sharp 'k' sound, as if appreciating an aftertaste. “Are you familiar on your reason for being here?”
“Vaguely, but I surmise it would be more efficient if you were to explain in a forthcoming manner.”
Amanda gave a short laugh. It was low and contained. Her eyes shifted - that was the most apt term he could use to explain - and a light appeared in her eyes. Amusement, perhaps. “And here I thought that you were going to be boring. Now, I have another question for you - have you ever heard of the Information Paradox?"
“Of course.” Surely, she was toying with him. "I am a physicist."
"Are you now? Would you enlighten me and explain it?"
"It is a dilemma termed by a long-deceased Terran physicist." He did not mention that it was described by the Vulcans first nearly a century before them. "It posited that quantum information of a system would be lost upon entering a black hole, thus conflicting with the law that information must be conserved – "
"Ah, there it is. Information - must - be - conserved," she echoed, tapping her finger on the table with every word. "The growth of our Empire is driven by our daring Starfleet girls and boys. It’s thus inevitable that nearly every critical point of our past and future is made due to Starfleet’s reckless, bloodthirsty abandon and occasional idiocy, yes?"
After a pregnant paused, he realized that she expected a response. She did not actually expect him to agree with her statement - one that would get him locked up if it befell on the wrong ears. Her ears, even.
"Our great Emperor Sato acts only in his subjects’ best interest."
She nodded in agreement. "Aren't you clever. Well, you're absolutely right. Emperor Sato, may his shadows cast far, is a great man, but unfortunately, there are still many others under his generous reign - and even previous Terran emperors - that have made poor decisions. It used to be standard protocol to simply graze whole civilizations and cities to the ground. I suppose we thought it cleaner and easier that way. Eventually, we began to see sense when there was an early - pushback to our guidance, and we realized we could not govern such alien societies without understanding them.
"So now as the Empire expands, Starfleet collects certain books and art during their travels. This allows us to make assimilation as painless and efficient as possible. To successfully integrate another species under Emperor Sato’s rule, it is necessary to understand who the people are. To be concise, I assist in this process and further decide whether certain stories deserve to get told. I do so by simply asking myself: Does this uphold the Empire’s values?”
Her words were daggers coated in honey. A smooth, sweet, and syrupy voice that unapologetically spun real events of massacres and invasions into something more palatable. More tolerable.
She tapped against the book at the center. Although the cover was blank, Sarek could see the handwoven seams of the binding. “Recently, the Empire has pulled out certain Vulcan writings from inventory. Ever since Vulcan fell under our wing, your people have behaved admirably and ideally – truly the model xenoform. There was not a need until now for us to direct our focus onto these forgotten texts.”
“Clarify what catalyzed this decision.”
“No,” Amanda answered simply, before promptly moving on. “Your assignment is to assist me in translating these texts. Vulcan is a dying language and kept alive by only the older generations by the Emperor’s mercy. While our focus may, on occasion, redirect to new high-priority arrivals, we will focus on pieces like these here.”
She leaned forward and gently opened the book, and Sarek’s eyes settled on the intricate curves and lines that characterized the Vulcan language. It was exceedingly rare to see such scripts nowadays. The last Vulcan book he remembered seeing was through his father's shared memories.
All it took was a second-long glance for him to recognize the writings.
Amanda turned to a page and tapped a section on the page. Her eyes were wide as she gently asked, “Can you translate this for me?”
Matching the care she used, Sarek delicately lifted the book in his hands. He knew the script like the back of his hand. His voice was deep and intoned as he read the Seventh Passage of The Teachings of Surak.
"Logic is eternal,
and the reason is long enduring.
Why do they last forever?
They do not live for themselves;
thus they are present for all beings.
The wise Vulcan puts himself last,
and finds himself in the place of authority.
He subjugates his emotions on all things;
therefore, he is united with all things.
He gives no thought to self.
He is perfectly fulfilled.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one."
The last line hung in the air, and he noticed that Amanda’s smile did not match the seriousness of the words. It was sickly-sweet – inappropriate, like her voice. “Do you have any thoughts about this page?”
It was no secret that Vulcans followed a logic-based life, and the comfort it gave the Empress has allowed them to continue pass on such principles without the Empire’s wrath. However, the lessons were carefully dissected and were only taught in the Terran language. ‘Surak’ was not to be mentioned, and the Vulcan language was certainly not used. But there was nonetheless a subtle inconsistency that caught his eye.
Sarek briefly considered retaining such information. A Terran would not notice such an imperceptible variation, and even a distracted Vulcan may briefly be eluded of it. But T’Pol's instructions were to be truthful on all matters. He spoke delicately, taking great care to choose his words.
“The written Vulcan language is not phonetic. Similar to Terran’s Chinese language, there is no sound associated with a specific letter or alphabet. Rather, the written word has its own intrinsic sound – the meaning gives it its sound. The Vulcan word for ‘subjugate’ and ‘control’ are pronounced precisely the same way, but there is a small difference in how its written. They look almost exactly alike, except ‘subjugate’ has an additional dot that then changes the meaning. Traditionally, the line is supposed to say, ‘He controls his emotions on all things.’ I propose the change in word choice was intentional in this case.”
She gazed at him for a moment, thoughtfully.
Then, her voice was unfathomably, dangerously soft, as Amanda spoke in clear, passable Vulcan, “Sa t’san s’at ek’vel.”
Sarek blinked.
The second thing he learned so far was that Amanda Grayson was testing him. She had been testing him.
Sarek did not let this realization show on his face. Instead, he smoothly closed the book. “It is considered an act of treason for a Terran to know another’s tongue.”
“My job allows me to circumvent many such laws.”
“You are able to read Vulcan?”
“Oh yes.”
“I fail to see why you require a translator.”
“It’s quite obvious, really. To know a language is not the same as understanding. To be fluent is to know the culture behind the words – to understand the implications and recognize inconstancies, such as you did. My job is not to simply read, but to analyze the meaning. I cannot do that efficiently in situations such as this.”
Amanda pulled out a second book from the stack. “I will also confess that although mostly sufficient, my Vulcan vocabulary is not complete.” She opened it, revealing that it was an exact copy of the one he read. But in this book, the small dot was not there. “I did not know the new phrase meant ‘subjugate’, only that it was not ‘control’ as shown in this one. Without knowing that it meant ‘subjugate’, I would not have been able to understand the culprit’s reasoning for doing so. Perhaps, it was a simple mistake, but that is rarely the case in my line of work – and your assistance has helped me with this one in particular.”
She opened the metal box, revealing a small kit of tools and bottles of various colors and consistency. The sharp scent of alcohol wafted in the stale air. She took out a clear container and a little cotton swab. Amanda soaked the tip in water.
“This book would not have been found on Vulcan.”
“No. It would not have.”
The third thing he learned was that her work dealt far beyond than just assessing scriptures. Amanda Grayson identified insurgent writings.
She carefully swept at the erroneous Vulcan script, and slowly, the black dot faded from view. She held up the cotton swab between them. The dark ink stained the pure white cotton.
“The ink most prevalently used by your kind comes from bh’okir, a tubular root common in the deserts, and the only thing than can remove it is water, not alcohol unlike Terran ink. This was just to show that most mistakes are intentional and locally sourced. Books such as this are marked for burning, as there could be other lingering messages that I’d have missed.”
Amanda pulled out a small object from the metal box and used it to suddenly stamp the cover with a red blossom - the very one that glinted on Amanda's bosom.
"So perhaps you're right - a translator is not what I truly needed. Consider yourself instead as a consultant of sorts." She efficiently began to clean up the space. She placed every single tool and book in a seemingly specific location with clean, precise movements. "Now - tell me. Sarek, what do you want?"
"To serve the Empire."
"That’s lovely. Let me rephrase that: why are you here?"
"The Empire requested - "
"No, I requested. I requested a Vulcan familiar with the language. Any Vulcan, really - and I got you, Sarek of Shi'Kahr. Did you apply for this position?"
"I did not. I was assigned."
"Did you even want this position?"
"That query is irrelevant."
"By the dead gods." Amanda raised an eyebrow. "I was assured that Vulcans were intelligent, but it's like talking to a broken toy. No wonder everyone here thinks your people are all cloned and brainwashed at birth."
"If that is true, then it is indeed necessary that you acquire a consultant to correct such an erroneous, nonsensical belief."
"Oh, I angered it! That's good - anger I understand. Now, I'm going to repeat myself one more time. I do so hate repeating myself, so you must give me a fascinating answer - what do you want?"
She expected dishonesty - all Terrans did. So he'd give her the truth. "It is my intent to acquire the position of Vulcan Ambassador."
"Well, that is quite ambitious. As flattered as I am that your government thought so highly of me - enough to give me one of their soon-to-be top official, this is quite much."
"You are displeased by my over-qualifications."
"Simply puzzled on why a Vulcan such as yourself - a physicist no less - was specifically chosen to assist me."
Sarek gazed at her, disrupting the quick flow of their words that Amanda Grayson had set. It was clear she sought some information from him - she was no different than any other Terran or Vulcan he had ever conversed with. Yet there was a quality to her that discomforted him, but Sarek could not name it.
Amanda waited, smiling.
"This position provided me with the opportunity to familiarize myself with Terran culture prior to becoming ambassador, which would require frequent interaction with your people. Furthermore, as a consultant," Sarek began, his words distinct. "I will educate you now that my people find that entertaining hypotheticals, analogies, and suspicions ineffective. I am certain that you will find my assistance adequate for your needs."
Amanda gazed at him thoughtfully, and he looked back steadfastly. It was her eyes, he concluded. Dark and downturned - they made Amanda soft, almost gentle. This with her modulated voice - which did not once raise gratingly - gave her a misleadingly docile appearance that contrasted sharply with the cutting, twisting nature of her words.
"Aren't you a darling? Well, I'm very glad to hear it.” She carefully closed the box's lid and leaned purposefully across the table. Her dark brown waves rippled underneath the light, and a strand caught against her lip. “Sarek, we will be seeing quite a bit of each other for a while, and so I'd like for the experience to be smooth - for both our sakes. This means that I would so appreciate it if we approached each other honestly.”
"As would I."
Her smile was slanted, he noted. She stood, thus concluding the meeting was over.
Amanda did not offer to shake his hand, but she did impart a last few words that were uttered not unlike a promise.
"Darling, I think you are going to be of great use to me."
In the solitude of his new quarters, which he must assume was bugged, Sarek entered his meditations. As customary, he allocated some time to evaluate his interaction with Amanda Grayson, a common methodology in deciphering any missed cues or information when meeting a new individual. He spent more time than usual doing so (it was gluttonous to spend too much time recalling past events, as that may be indicative of pleasure), but he allowed it. It was a particularly stimulatory day after all.
Amanda Grayson physically resembled the actresses from those ancient films. No loud or restless motions. Her posture was straight and her actions smooth and fluid, all of which was suggestive of a more refined background. He replayed the sounds of her laugh again and again, noting that the duration and inflection was the same every time. Everything she did appeared so purposeful - practiced - to the point that it was almost Vulcan.
But there was a piece of profound information that he had gathered almost immediately after the meeting. Amanda had all but confirmed that there was insurgency on the Terran planet stronghold – one at which Vulcans played a role.
And, undoubtedly, Sarek was here to help her find them.
Notes:
I forgot to say, but with AMSR (LOLLL i cant believe thats what this A Mirror Stained Red stands for) I hope to write a story that's reflective of the dark nature of the Mirror Universe! That means an Empire that is horrible but also viable and functional. My goal for my characters is also to stay true to what kind of people I think the MU would create, and that means our protagonist are very flawed as well. One thing I’ve noticed in the Sarek/Amanda fandom (even within my own works) is that there tends to be a power imbalance with Sarek as the ambassador and Amanda consenting to live a VULCAN life, etc - so I really wanted to explore the opposite where Amanda is very much the ~alpha~ in society and perhaps even their relationship. Love to hear yalls thoughts on this!
Amanda's dress: https://pin.it/3qGcXxT
Her hair: https://pin.it/5wXyc3A(Disclaimer: may need to sign in to Pinterest before viewing link)
Chapter Text
The First Empress Natel Zolaire (June 2101 - December 2155) was born in the setting of the Eugenic Wars (see Chapter 4.2), also known as the Great Wars. The lands of our Heavenly World were scorched with nuclear bombs, and our golden skies littered with remnants of missiles and rockets as fractions fought for dominance. Many civilians and soldiers perished as our atmosphere filled with choking sulfur and radiation, yet Empress Zolaire survived as a child of war and quickly became known for her capabilities on the field and at the strategy table. Her red-stained broadsword, for which continues to symbolize the Terran Empire to present times, was said to have “drank the blood and sung the last wails of her foes.”
Upon our Holy Day, April 5, 2131, when the first xenoforms attempted to invade our lands, Zefram Cochrane eliminated the savage intruders and brought gifts of their technology to the First Empress’ feet. Some advisors called for the burning of such objects, but Empress Zolaire was clever and farseeing.
With her strong and searching hand, she spread her fingers and casted the first Starfleet to enter the void and conquer, so that the blackness may be filled with the rays of our Heavenly World. Although the Terran Empire has been standing for centuries, it was only then that we opened our eyes to the skies as one, and thus Empress Natel Zolaire was anointed as the First…."
Page 264 of The Foundations of the Terran Empire, Volume 1, 5th Edition (2198), approved by the Imperial Consortium of Educations as a textbook for students ages 7-11.
Sarek observed the growing crowd as they trickled into the black-glass pyramid. The floating nebula above their heads casted flickering reds across their skins, like light reflecting off a disturbed pool of water. It produced movement where there was none and distortion where there was some. It was difficult to track the precise motions of the workers, as they strode across the obsidian platform, uttered their destination, and disappeared in a curtain of rippling beams. Their images appeared more like mirages fluctuating in the dark.
Terrans were utterly paradoxical. They detested deviation but had a proclivity for chaos. The very way they milled the Weapon Sector was a testament to that. They came in from all directions - north, south, east, west, a diagonal, a curve. All the while talking, turning, and laughing. Their faces twisting and stretching like hands pulling at wet clay. There was no flow or sense of order. He expected collisions of these persons against one another, as was bound to happen with such randomness, but instead, everyone somehow seemed to slip by or turn at the last second. Such a restless race, born and living and thriving in disarray.
Sarek spent his whole life observing Terrans at a distance, living around them. Now that he was among them on Terra, World of the Heavens, he did not know whether his people’s conquerors have met or exceeded his expectations (or potentially worse – failed to meet them). It was much too early to decide, given that his interactions were limited to only 0.74 Sol days.
He would have been content to observe this strange species with their stranger technology if not for the rising number of gazes that his still, deviant form was attracting.
Sarek stepped forward. “Level Forty-Seven.”
As the white hall shimmered to existence, so did the sensation of a fist squeezing his eardrums. The name of Level Forty-Seven and the pressure change suggested a change in altitude – either above or even below ground. The latter was more likely, considering that the innards of the pyramid of the Weapon’s Sector was all but hollow.
With his PADD, he passed unimpeded through the red door, the intrusive scanners, and then the final wooden door. He expected Amanda Grayson – his supervisor – who he met the day prior, but who greeted him instead was a young Terran girl with the curliest hair he’s ever seen.
She shot up gracelessly, her knee banging loudly against the table's edge. Stooped shoulders and flitty eyes, he noted immediately.
“You’re Sarek?”
Rather than waste breath to provide the obvious answer, he assessed her. The tight twirls seemed to defy gravity and its owner, who had attempted to twist them into a bun that appeared ready to give out at any moment. Curly hair was practically nonexistent among his people, and his stare seemed to make the girl further uncomfortable. She frequently shifted her weight from right to left like a pendulum. Sarek could make out a book bag on the floor beside where she sat at the table, which was sprawled with school texts on basic subjects that he had learned at half her age – physics, calculus, and the like.
“Right,” she said after his lack of response. She stuck her hand out with a sudden determination. “I’m Rebecca Okiro, Amanda’s assistant.”
Touching an individual - a katra - demanded all of one's senses. It was more than a feeling. Rather, an envelopment or affrontation of the person's essence.
Rebecca's, for example, was as jittery and irregular as her gaze. She was a flash of pale pink, like light filtering through a thin flower petal. The bitterness of coffee with a sharp, unexpected tang of peppermint. A nervous flutter of energy.
All in all, incredibly mundane, even for a Terran.
She was quick to snatch her hand back. “Amanda is busy – meetings and such, so I’m your tour guide for now."
“Specify your qualifications.”
Her cheeks flushed red. “I’ve worked here for almost two years. I come in about two or three times a week in between classes. I’m a second-year student, by the way, at the Imperial Academy,” she added, with a puff of her chest. “I skipped a year, so I’m only eighteen.”
“I was under the impression that this was a strictly classified laboratory in which the public is not to know of. Not one that an adolescent is to intern at.”
Her words spilled out, rushed and shrill, and immediately, Sarek knew she’d be a terrible diplomat. “I was invited by Amanda herself. She can personally vouch for my character.”
Based on his one-minute conversation with Rebecca, Sarek would not have wanted Rebecca as his own assistant. She was too discursive with her rambling, empty words, as well as far too sensitive. Perhaps it would go away with age and experience, but in that case, she was too young to be of any true help. He could not see how Rebecca would’ve gained this position from skills alone. Although he only had a single conversation with Amanda Grayson, he doubted she would pick someone like Rebecca if not for something more.
Sarek opened his mouth, but Rebecca swiftly cut in, her voice ringing. “We should begin the tour. Starting with here.” She gave a vague gesture of her hand to the large, open room. “This is the Red Room, as we call it. The books here are all Terran origin – mainly Terran xenoanthropologists who write and document histories and cultures of other species. Such books are rarely available for the public, but they are useful for our case when we need to refer or analyze texts from other worlds. This room probably has the largest collection in the whole galaxy.”
The Red Room. His eyes fell to the titles on the spines closest to him. They were mostly in Terran languages: English, Arabic, Chinese, and the like.
Rebecca pointed towards the closed door at the eastern side. There was a security pad similar to that of the entrance.
"Amanda’s office. We’re not allowed in, of course. And over here is the stairway to get up to the second and third floor. Up there are books written by you Xenos relating to histories, linguistics, and so on that have been approved by the Empire for their continued release."
“Including Vulcan?”
“Yep.”
He turned to her. “Do you speak Vulcan?”
“No.” Rebecca shifted uncomfortably at his sudden attention. His nearly black eyes were too still, too intense for a Terran to consider natural. He would confess he felt a mild satisfaction at the Terran’s obvious discomfort. She was like a plump fruit ready to burst at the slightest provocation.
“Are you studying xenoanthropology or perhaps linguistics?”
“No. I’m an astrobiologist.”
“That profession is unrelated to the goals of this internship – ”
“Well, what are you?”
“A Vulcan,” he said. “With relevant cultural knowledge. What is your intent here?”
“My intent?”
“Your goals, future career – ”
A dry voice cut across. “Is there a reason you are bullying my assistant?”
She was standing at the now-open doorway of her office, fingers delicately laced across her stomach. Waiting.
Sarek provided a measured blink, an act that he has been told on more than one occasion was a hint too contentious than appropriate. “I am inquiring about her qualifications. It is a straightforward query – one that is commonly asked on Vulcan. It allows me to gain insight on the dynamic of the workplace as well as one’s character, which is considered intimately tied with their intellectual capability and work ethic.”
“Then you are doubting my capabilities as a supervisor.”
“Incorrect. I had come here to serve as your consultant on Vulcan culture. I am merely performing my expected duties.”
Amanda abruptly laughed – a short, airy thing, before turning to an out-of-sorts Rebecca. “Dear, don’t worry about him. Vulcans like to be the smartest in the room.” She walked over to the young girl, placing a hand on the latter’s arm. “Rebecca, would you be a doll and pick up something from Mr. Enyo for me?”
Rebecca visibly relaxed under her touch, the tension in her shoulders that had settled since Sarek’s entrance finally fading. “Alright. From the Legion, right?”
“Precisely.”
Rebecca hesitated, her eyes darting back to Sarek. “But what about – ”
“Not to worry, dear. I can take it from here.”
The girl shot Sarek one last wary look before scurrying out the Red Room.
By the time the door shut behind the girl, Amanda had already directed her cutting attention to him. Her eyes scanned along his form critically before she finally nodded. “Much better. This complements your eyes.”
She was referring to his dark grey, Terran-styled clothing, which he had acquired at a nearby market shortly after departing here yesterday. A simple set of warm trousers, a coat, and tunic. There were not many other options provided to xenoforms. The fabrics ranged only from dusty brown to black – a sharp deviation from the deep reds, oranges, and purple Vulcans favored in their silks.
Amanda did not waste another breath as she breezed to the opposite northern wall where there were two solid metal doors that sandwiched a wide pane of glass. It made of a material not unlike the Weapon's Sector - tinted black and distortedly reflective, as though it was trapping rays of light and sending back something less.
"We can only enter the Laboratory through the left door." She stood in front of it and put her hand against the scanner. She looked pointedly at the other door. “And exit through the right."
He followed her across the doorway and felt a force push against him. His clothes rippled, and static clung onto his skin.
The Laboratory was rather sparse and blindingly white. The walls, the metals tables, and the white tile floors was reminiscent of a hospital – or a morgue. The image of the latter persisted, particularly with the giant, startingly black furnace sitting at the center of the room. Locked to the ground, it had a long, wide column that shot up through the ceiling to – somewhere. Made of the darkest iron, its hungry, empty mouth gaped at them. Its door was swung limply open, and as if to invite someone in by disguising itself into something mundane.
Amanda closed the furnace’s iron door, and it gave a weak, protesting groan. A smudge of dark soot stained her finger. She inspected it critically before rubbing it away. “If I deem a certain piece or book important, I keep only one copy for transcription and bookkeeping. The rest are burned, as well as books I have no need of. In time, you will be taught how to use it was well.”
He followed her around the furnace to the back of the room, where a single white door greeted them.
It blended seamlessly into the spotless, white room, but there was another black, reflective window - the same as the one peering into the Red Room - beside it.
“The Darkroom,” she said, bending her head down to scan her eyes. The scanner flashed green. “I alone have the clearance to open the door, so rarely will you ever be here alone or without me knowing it. I will emphasize that electronics barely work in the Red Room, but they surely do not work beyond this door. In the Darkroom, things like microphones and cameras are rendered unfunctional.”
“And transmissions?”
“No transmissions, no signals, no radios. Your PADD would not even function as anything beyond identification purposes here.”
“That would require a large amount of interference. Insulating electromagnetic waves in such a small room requires more than just shielding.”
“Ever the physicist, aren’t you?” she asked dryly, as she opened the door.
He followed her inside. “Simply noting this is an extreme amount of security dedicated to books.”
The Darkroom’s name was well deserved. The strips of lighting across the ceiling radiated only long wavelengths nearing the infrared range, thus soaking them in endless red. Even the photoreceptors of his own eyes, products of evolution from an orange-colored sky, strained to adapt to the dimness. The lack of white light constricted the already small space around them. Low ceilings and walls only six strides wide, two of which were lined with metal shelves. Most were empty, while others contained a compilation of old, worn books and scrolls. A cart in the corner consisted of several stacked trays where paintings, drawings, and other flat pieces of art laid. In the opposite wall was a long, empty basin filled with a still, dark liquid. There was a single glass table in the center of the room, already splayed with tools.
The back of his neck prickled with - displeasure. His people grew on the wide, endless sands of Vulcan, where space was plentiful. This room was constricting in both light and space. Not to mention, all air seemed to have been sucked away the moment the metal door swung firmly shut behind him. Thus every sound - every breath - was amplified.
“This darkroom was used during the Great Wars, as certain radiation products are able to be detected by the same equipment more commonly and innocently used to develop photographic films. The red lighting generally allows less damage to old paints, ink, and pages, and thus the Darkroom now contains quite a collection of strictly classified books, one that you cannot find anywhere else in the galaxy." He focused on her clear voice, which sounded almost disembodied in the still, suffocating air. "There is a reason we are located deep in the Weapon Sector. With the right knowledge, one can topple empires and create gods of themselves.”
He bowed his head down to read some of the titles and found that several of the lettering were unrecognizable – likely a collection from other worlds like Klingon, Andorians, and the like. Some were of Terran origin, such as the Holy Bible and the Quran. But then his eyes fell on ancient Vulcan texts.
There were dozens several of them, all brittle and perhaps centuries, if not millennia, old.
Alam’ak and Czar’ak, he read.
The Fourteen Great Clans.
The Teachings of Surak.
His eyes lingered on the latter. He had never seen a copy so old - never seen a genuine copy in the flesh, truthfully. Unlike the insurgent copy Amanda had shown yesterday, this was written in the script of the old ways. Dark red ink glinted on its binding as though still fresh.
“It’s a first copy.” Her voice came from close behind him. He didn’t straighten, though he could clearly feel her heat in the cold, dry room. His skin tingled unpleasantly as though he stepped through static again. “His signature is still on it. The cover is made of wein-dun, a now-extinct desert plant not unlike a cactus, which is only found in Vulcan writings made nearly nine centuries ago. Incredibly sturdy and resilient thus making it difficult to tear, yet upon contact with water, it dissolves like sugar.”
“You can hold it, if you like.” Her words were slick and sweet like j'ikhl sap.
At that, Sarek’s gaze finally flickered to her. This was the closest she had ever stood to him – just inches away, compared to across the room or seated across a table – and it revealed how slight she was. She was slim and narrow like a reed and stood at only his shoulders even with her heeled footwear. Yet he did not believe small was apt to describe Amanda - what she lacked in physicality was compensated by her evident ease and surety.
Her dark eyes appeared almost as black as his, though they glinted under the brutal red light. Malicious, almost, though softened as she peered through sweeping eyelashes. The swell of her bottom lip was caught between her white teeth, enhancing her warm smile.
Was this Terran seduction?
It was difficult to infer, he mused. His expertise on the matter was limited, though not nonexistent. Quite a few women and men on Vulcan have attempted such things on him when he entered the political realm, but they were all blatant with their desires. All sways and sighs and noise – constantly moving like a mating dance - though their touches revealed their schemes easily enough.
Amanda, meanwhile, did not touch him, nor danced. She simply stood and waited. She had so far spoken to him with neutral tones, often accompanied by a closed smile. Perhaps this was kindness? Politeness, at best. But Sarek was reluctant to accept it as such, not after Amanda’s test from yesterday. He had allowed his expectations to cloud his mind, thus allowing her to surprise him.
Sarek was Vulcan and conditioned to not fall for the same trick twice.
Almost robotically, he reached for the book, ignoring how her lips quirked up.
“It was found buried under sand in a cave some miles away from Shi'Kahr,” she said, as he picked it up with a gentleness stark against his Vulcan disposition. It weighed heavily, and his attention caught on the stamp at the bottom corner. It was the mark of Surak – his name inscribed within the insignia of his clan. “A common preservation technique used by your people. It was kept dry and away from light, allowing it to remain for centuries.”
He opened the book. The pages crackled and whispered in protest to his intrusion, but his eyes absorbed every line and swirl of Surak’s hand.
“What do you do with these texts? Store them until later usage?”
“Certainly, more than that. While I do adore the excitement of the job – it’s all about solving a puzzle, after all – it is the restoration that is a true art. This text – ” she lightly tapped the book in his hand “ – was found about twenty-nine years ago, and its repair is still ongoing. Most pages were found intact, but some had faded ink or tears and the like. The worst ones had entire sentences missing. The research it takes to find the ingredients for the exact same pigment or thread, for example, is long, but not as long as it takes to ensure the language is the same as well. It is all about maintaining the integrity of the piece.”
“Your profession,” he said, “is rather obsolete, is it not? We live in a digital age, and such efforts seem wasted if electronics can easily upload and digitalize them.”
“Certainly, we have AI translators that could process words instantaneously compared to myself, who would require hours to read a single book. Yet can AI do what we did yesterday? Take a piece and interpret it – give it meaning? I told you yesterday, that is truly what my job is. Not to mention, the Empire has thousands of worker drones who crunch hundreds of codes dedicated to finding any suspicious activity, but many xenoforms do not have access to PADDs, and digital communications are strictly monitored. Thus, it’s up to those like me for the Empire, whether it be other linguists or Starfleet, to refer to when scripts or other cultural matters come up. Occasionally, I’ll even advise diplomats on how to best handle certain species. These delicate matters require a bit of thought – more so than computers are capable of.”
“Then perhaps you are more well suited for diplomacy.”
“You wouldn’t particularly understand,” she said blithely. “Having a passion. I find reading, painting, restoring much more gratifying than other things. Now, come along. I will teach you what goes into the process, and perhaps you may eventually become more appreciative.”
He paused briefly before placing The Teachings of Surak back into its place on the cold, metal shelf and following her to the table. There she pulled a cord from the hanging lamp, and a strong white beam of light shone directly down onto the glass surface.
He stood beside her, as she gingerly picked up the book laying at the center.
The cover was made of a strange, reflective material that had a deep, violet-red shade. It had a unique symmetrical texture that he realized was that of scales, not unlike a reptile’s. As she opened it, he saw the pages were made of a stiff material and contained rough, sharp letters unlike anything he had seen before. The leaves of the book were loose, however, and only perilously connected to one another by a thread that had been woven through one of its corners.
“It’s of Klingon origin,” she explained, her glinting eyes admiring the waxy sheen of the pages. “They favor animal hides. I’m not entirely sure what kind of creatures these are made of – we have very little information on that sort of thing, but I had managed to save the original threading used in the process. I believe the thread made of intestines.
“After deconstructing the pages and ridding of mold, moisture, bacteria, and the like, I’m now trying to bind it all back together again.” She slid a piece of simple white paper filled with long, slanted writings and sketches towards him. Upon studying, he recognized it was a diagram. “I had drawn out how the stitching was done in hopes of reconstructing it. You are going to help me finish the rest.”
Under the white spotlight cast over the table, she gently tugged each glove off from her hands. His eyes steadily followed the fabric as it slid over the swells of her palm and knuckles in an almost obscene fashion. Silk sliding over skin. If she were Vulcan, this would certainly have been a blatant attempt at seduction. (Did she know that already? What other books had she devoured and waited to spit out back at him like a venomous snake?)
“Do we not require gloves?”
“No, it’s better to use clean, dry hands. Just like with defusing a bomb or assembling a phaser. Gloves reduces dexterity and may get caught on the pages, thus increasing the likelihood of damage.”
The slim needle glinted between her nimble fingers. He leaned over with interest, his own hands clasped behind his back, as she bent over the book. She tucked her curtain of perfectly waved hair behind her ear, allowing him to see her precise movements as she explained to him the steps to this Klingon-styled stitching. Her voice was softer in her concentration.
At one point, she flipped the book, and his eyes fell on a peculiar, deviant part of her hand.
On the fleshy part of the inside of her palm was a single patch of tight, shining pink skin. No bigger than a centimeter, the circular mark was relatively homogenous, smooth, and appeared almost as though a drop of liquid had stained her skin - indicative of a chemical burn, perhaps.
Amanda straightened, and he cleanly redirected his attention. Pulled away from the white light’s beam, her distinct features were washed in either red or shadows. She held out a delicate hand with the needle stuck out between her fingers as one holds a cigarette. “Do you think you can try now? Under my supervision, of course.”
He had picked up on the pattern easily. It was simple, really, to memorize the eight steps this stitching required.
In reply, he took the needle, taking care to not brush her skin. She faced him, her hip leaning against the edge of the table and one hand supporting her weight. She was far too close for his comfort, and somehow, he was certain she knew that. To shift away would be a confirmation, and he surely did not intend to do so.
(Suddenly, he became aware of a new scent. It was so potent that he wondered how he didn’t notice it earlier in this dry, static room. Rich and heady, yet subtlety sweet in a way that tickled his nose. Honey, he thought at first. But no, it was something more - fragrant.)
Under her blatant watching, he bent over studied the piece below him. He mimicked the way Amanda held it, as though it were a babe. The book was splayed open, revealing its innards – or perhaps more accurately, its skeleton and bone white pages. He gingerly held the thin, metal needle in his hands.
It felt far too sharp to his sensitive hands, but he ignored the stimuli and threaded it through the hole. It caught against one of the many thick pages.
“Delicately. We are not trying to pierce through the paper,” Amanda lightly chastised. “Just - ease it in."
Her breath washed over his neck. It hardly helped with his concentration, but he would be a poor Vulcan if he allowed this small bother to inflict him.
During the fourth step of his first stitch, he struggled to loop the thread around the needle as she had done. It would stubbornly wind loose and twist off, only for him to futilely try again. The only sign of his indignation came from the faint crease between his eyebrows. One thing Sarek had to acclimate to in Terra was its lighter gravity. Everything, whether it be paper or even the meat on his bones, felt lighter here.
Sarek saw it coming. During the second he had, he considered moving away. Sarek did not like being touched by Terrans – abhorred it, really. He was a slave to their etiquette and would allow handshaking, but anything more was undesired.
But Sarek was – curious. So instead of retreating, he steeled himself.
Amanda’s hand hovered over his, just barely applying any pressure as she steadied his own. But it was enough – what was a simple act to her was infinitely more to Sarek than she could comprehend. To him, it was a glimpse into her katra.
The first touch is often startling – a stranger is touching his katra, after all – but this is aberrant.
Amanda, like them, is unbridled, cutting energy that crashed into him like a sandstorm. A strong wave of heat and power and energy drowning his senses to replace them with Her.
The crimson light of the Darkroom sears glaringly bright as though branding his corneas. Red seeps into his eyes like spilt ink, until he is rendered nearly blind. Choking on a dominating fragrance of ash and something heady - like a crushed, wilting flower - and his mouth is coated thick in her taste - achingly sweet, almost. The kind that bruised one’s throat. Warm syrup or honey wine –
A ripple of heat that nearly burns but not quite slides over his skin, like a warm page of a book left out in the sun. Words flash through his mind in his attempt to find something that could compare.
Shards of starlight –
Blazing and burning and –
And then suddenly, she is gone.
Sarek gave a single, measured blink, as his vision cleared and his katra retreated behind his walls, like an animal seeking safety. His head pulsed, not unlike how the mind protests after drinking an indulgent amount of Vulcan wine.
Amanda’s hand was no longer on his, but instead rested a couple of inches beside. The loop was fastened securely on his needle, though he could not remember neither him nor her doing it. He felt an echo of her heat on his skin, as though he himself had been branded for burning. He could still taste her.
Even worse - his hand was tremoring. He directed his nervous system with all the focus he could supply and - just as one purposely blinks or turns their head, he finds the nerves in his arm that are glowing, sparking and releases neurotransmitters into the synapses so that they may take -
“Everything alright?”
She was very close, her face just inches away. Her brows were furrowed inward, and her eyes were wide. So blatantly concerned that even a Vulcan would be capable of identifying the emotion. But there was a subtle shift, an awareness that came from a brief brush with her katra. Her gentle smile, which he previously would have deemed as warm, was now calculated, if not amused. Her deep brown eyes, soft and downturned, were cutting and cruel.
Sarek came to the conclusion, upon brief reflection of her katra, that he did not trust Amanda.
Before he had retreated, he sensed she had noted that her touch affected him - a consequence of Terran arrogance, nothing more. Despite her large collection of knowledge, she did not know of Vulcan’s telepathic abilities. Vulcan had destroyed any and all information containing such information long ago, and certainly none of the stolen books on the shelves would say anything.
It was unideal for her to think him as influenced. After a measured pause, he simply answered, “No.”
Turning his attention on the book, he raised his hand (now steady, to his relief) to finish the stitch.
It soon became quite evident Sarek was rather poor in his technique at sewing. He managed about halfway down the length of the bind before he was forced to stop. He tugged on the thread, which was much shorter than it should have been, only to see that it – the original and delicately preserved intestine thread – got tangled.
Her knuckle brushed against his as she pulled it away from his hands. It was expected this time. Again, everything became brighter, clearer, vibrant. Red stained his vision. Sarek felt her flurrying amusement before she was suddenly gone.
He swiftly pressed his tense, trembling fist into the folds of his coat.
“I can take over. You’ll get better in due time.” Amanda’s fingers moved swiftly and expertly over the large knot, tugging and pulling until it collapsed and unfurled like petals of a bud. Her eyes flickered briefly up to him through her lashes. “Until then, you have any questions?”
Many, in fact. He leapt for the distraction. Queries, information – these he understood and took comfort in.
“Clarify the focus of this book.”
“Geology.”
“I was under the impression our focus in on Vulcan texts.”
“Yes, but I have obligations to several others as well. An old friend had asked for a small favor, and I am nothing but generous.”
“Do you speak Klingon?”
“Not particularly. It’s rather rough on the throat, but I read it well enough. Like its people, the language is rather simplistic.”
There it was – Terran superiority.
“What is the significance of the pendant you wear?”
During his market excursion yesterday, Sarek had seen a few variations of her brooch on both Terran men and women – mainly on those who were influential enough to ride in sleek vehicles or were accompanied by slaves. They varied in size, shape, and design, but it was always worn over the breast. Hers gleamed with dark red petals and a golden stem that pierced through the fine silk of her dress.
“Belonged to my mother,” Amanda answered without pause. “Stick pins or brooches like this designate one as belonging to the Patrician class.”
“Define Patrician.”
She seemed more surprised by this query than any of his former. “Darling, you don’t really know much, do you?”
His eyes narrowed by a miniscule, but she only chuckled, not unlike a parent to their naïve child.
“I suppose you could be forgiven for just only arriving to Terra. Just as your society was comprised of influential clans with long histories, Terra has their own twelve families of high status – half of which reside here in the Eternal City including my own.”
“I was not aware the Grayson family had a particularly long history.”
Amanda nodded in agreement, still focused on the book in hand. She moved much quicker than he, her pale fingers flashing brightly under the beam. “Not long, perhaps, but prominent. Our history began when it truly mattered – the great Terran Expansion beyond our system. My paternal grandmother grew up rather poor, but she never let that stop her from excelling at engineering. Elena Grayson was one of the first to dissect Vulcan technology and make our Empire as great as it is today.” Amanda paused, and her eyes - a tad too wide - flickered to his. “I suppose your own grandfather is one to thank for his – generous donations.”
Sarek turned her words in his mind, as though they were the pieces of kal-toh. He weighed each phrase individually, finding their balance, before reconstructing the structure, the sentence. The Graysons were already very well known for dominating the current affairs of the intergalactic weapon industry, but Amanda was further suggesting – confirming – that it was her grandmother, mother of Marcus Grayson, who had directly devoured and transformed the Vulcan technology on Sarek’s grandfather’s ship.
A fascinating piece of novel information. As Sarek’s lack of awareness regarding the Patrician class revealed, he was not completely aware of Terran genealogy, but his younger brother, Silek, had a peculiar interest in studying Terran lineages. There was also one rumor in particular that he had mentioned that was of interest to the S’chn T’gai clan.
Sarek spoke carefully while watching for her reaction. “Not to forget the contributions of your own maternal grandfather, of course.”
She only smiled. “Of course. Poor man became a delusional drunkard – but Zefram Cochrane played quite the role." She hummed. "How remarkable is it that the descendants of such valuable players in our Empire's history are here now, in this very room! This is all rather coincidental, isn’t it?”
Abruptly, he realized he was being challenged - no, put on the defensive. “I do not believe in coincidence.”
“What do you believe in?”
“Probability.”
Her voice remained pleasant. “Well, you must agree that the probability of meeting the granddaughter of your grandfather’s killer is quite low.”
“It would be a very slim if based purely on chance.”
“And was it?” There was something sharper lacing her tone. “Purely from chance?”
“Yes. I was not completely certain of your bloodline until your confirmation.”
"Forgive me, but I find that very difficult to accept."
Sarek took great care in not allowing a single twitch of his face, lest he confirmed her suspicions. One of the many lessons he had taken regarding Terran culture flickered like a brightening flame in his mind. “A probable impossibility is preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible.”
And of course, she recognized it. Her teeth flashed as she grinned, delighted, and her eyes brightened.
(Whose dark brown eyes did Amanda carry? Were they from Elena Grayson or Zefram Cochrane? Were those eyes the same as the one’s his grandfather, Solkar, must have seen, moments before he was shot to his death?)
“Darling,” she said, her voice effused in warmness, and he knew then that she was pleased by his reference. “As utterly charming it is to hear a Vulcan recite Terran philosophy, context is always important when quoting Aristotle. He was speaking in regards to poems and plays and art, not of something so messy as life and murder."
"I find that it is still applicable, in this instance. As unlikely our meeting is, it is nonetheless mutually beneficial."
"Well, it warms me to know that a few dead people won't be an issue for us then - and that our Vulcan vassals are clearly being supplied such a complete education. Now, next question.”
The abrupt change in topic would have destabilized a Terran, but for him, it was refreshingly reminiscent of his people.
“Are you attempting to seduce me?”
The laugh that followed was startling loud and sincere. “I suppose it depends – is it working?”
“No.”
“Pity,” she chuckled. She tilted her head. “But in all seriousness, what kind of wife would I be?”
Sarek considered this. “You are married.”
She smiled and lifted her hand. On it was a ring with a large, glinting red gem, which he assumed signified Terran marriage. “Seven years and counting.”
He supposed this was expected. A woman of her status would have wedded early, a common trait found in both of their cultures. He himself was betrothed at seven years of age (though that did not end as idealized). But she must have been quite young, only seventeen years old, at the time of her matrimony.
(It was a strange thought overall to believe himself nearly three times her age. The very way she carried herself, the deliberateness of her words, the very way she looked. She has seen comparatively so little years yet carries herself as though she already seen it all.)
“And are you?” Amanda asked lightly. “Do you have a little Vulcan wife waiting for you back at home?”
“No.”
Sarek refused to waver his gaze, as she considered him, her pink lip caught between her teeth. Amanda tilted her head, finally chuckling. “Well, to further answer your question, seducing Vulcans has never particularly appealed to me. You are all so austere and… puritanical. And to be quite truthful, before, I did not even believe Vulcans could even be seduced.”
His mouth firmed into a severe line. "'Before’?”
Just then, a faint buzzing was heard from the distance. Amanda pressed a small switch on the corner of the table, and her eyes flickered over his shoulder.
He followed her gaze to where the mirror by the door stood. Before his eyes, their dark reflections dissolved and revealed the Laboratory. The mirror – now a window – showed Rebecca sweeping in the laboratory with a cylindrical package in hand.
Sarek turned and went still. With only a breadth of space between them, Amanda had closed the gap between them.
His skin prickled from her warmth, as she repeated, “Before.”
Amanda slipped around him while calling out over her shoulder, “Darling, close the door on your way out.”
It was when Sarek was left alone that he measuredly inspected his hand. Only once satisfied it was as still as stone, he stepped out.
When Sarek finally departed for the day, he thought the ground was bleeding. Or was being cleaned.
After all, rain was nearly non-existent in Shi'Kahr. Both possibilities - either blood or bleach - were an inconvenience at most, as it required effort to take a wide step over or an alternative pathway. But Sarek quickly assessed that the wetness was everywhere. Across every inch of the pavement floors, the outer black glass of the Weapon Sector, and even in the heavy air. Everything glimmered with tiny, jewel-like drops. The very scent of Terra was different - a deep and heady aroma that was not wholly unpleasant, surprisingly. Almost like that of the soft clay found deep in the caves of Vulcan Forge, the kind that stained his palms orange.
These details, along with the ever-constant layer of clouds over their heads, suggested instead that it must have rained earlier.
Rain. A novel experience that he was mildly disappointed to have missed witnessing.
As he headed away from the looming pyramid, the earthy scent grew and transformed into something that was near stifling. The pools of poppies that covered nearly every available inch of the governmental complex seemed to have only brightened under the gloomy sky, and their scent only grew in unnaturally strong potency. It reminded him of Amanda and the strange, alien scent her katra evoked. So thick and choking that he considered that perhaps there was a poison infused in their pristine petals. It would be easy to produce strains of seedlings with mutated genes – gloves as white as Amanda’s satin ones plucking at the undesirables until the very best were selected, the others discarded.
The Terran sun was just beginning to lower. The city’s notorious overcast still rendered the world grey, but even it was not strong enough to prevent rays of light streaking through the cracks. It was not enough, however, to warm him up – not like how it felt on Vulcan. The ever-constant chill made him grateful for the charcoal wool coat he had obtained earlier that morning. He would need to acquire more. According to the holovids projected onto the sides of buildings, it would only grow chillier as they began to approach winter.
Sarek had intended to head south and return to his compound for meditations, but the oranging sky brought a change in his route. The sour, sharp scent of salt grew until even that overwhelmed the poppies, and wind began to whip across his face with more force. The government complex, and most of the Eternal City, sat on craggily cliffs overseeing a bay that he’d only seen in glimpses of holofilms and digital texts. He weaved through the white paths until he ended up at an overhang and approached the marble fence that separated him from the sea.
Vulcan was a sea of red and orange, quiet yet shifting. Every wave was a whisper, as the winds picked up sand and blanketed them elsewhere. One could find peace in the dry, sinking heat or in the fluid sands or even the monotonous low buzzing of its hidden creatures. It was the essence of tranquility and meditations, thus elevating one’s state of mind.
In comparison, and from a purely objective outlook (thus ignoring the crimes of its native dwellers), Terra was an aggravating place.
Its waters were vengeful – constantly crashing and bellowing against the cliffs. Unable to shift the unyielding stone, the waves would desperately reach up against the rocks as though trying to grab him from over the fence. He could feel the gusts of its bellows striking his face and whipping at his clothing, tugging him back and forth. Enraged at its failure to obtain another victim, the waters foamed in rage, white bubbles and froth clinging to its surface like spittle at the mouth.
Even the skies were as turbulent as the sea. A mirror of the ocean below, the clouds rolled across dark, dense, and heavy, as if weighing itself down. Any stray light that would manage to pierce through would be hungrily swallowed up, until it was dark once more. Looking out in the distance, he could see lower, lighter clouds of mist clinging to the ocean’s surface. It was difficult to see where the sky and water met.
It was no wonder why Terrans had evolved to be so tumultuous. So combative.
And, he thought as his senses briefly flashed with red, honey wine, and heat, so mercurial. Clearly, Amanda had performed her research on who exactly her consultant was, and she wanted it to be very clear to him that she did. It accounted for why she had displayed skepticism on his motives during their first meeting. Perhaps she suspected he was here to assassinate her in some sordid plot for revenge - like one of their terrible holodramas. A way to - right the wrongs of the S'chn T'gai clan, in Magistrate T'Pol's rather emotive words. If that was the case, this meant Amanda was arrogant. A Vulcan would have simply picked someone who posed less of a risk, but she was arrogant enough to still allow him at her side and think herself untouchable.
And she would be correct. Should Amanda turn up dead - whether by his hand or not, Sarek would undoubtedly be the first apprehended by whatever law enforcement they had in the Eternal City (he should really learn more of its workings). Amanda was protected, and not just by her Patrician status or her name, but simply by the fact that she was Terran and he was not. But Sarek knew this.
And now he also knew of her own lineage. How both of her bloodlines from mother and father brought shame, blood, and regret to S'chn T'gai clan within a single day. While revenge was not something he sought, it is neither something he could forget. Not like her, the way Amanda treated their shared history as though it were some sort of jest. Eyes bright, knowing. Amused.
This could be attributed to the Terran mindset that encouraged self glory. The number of Terran stories of familiacide, for instance, was indicative of their lack of communal - or clan - centric life style. While Sarek was admittedly guilty of it himself, familiacide was incredibly rare on Vulcan. An act against the clan was almost always met with vre'kasht, or exile. This was the equivalence of death. Everything he did - even the death of his father - was done for the sake of his clan. For his people.
And here he was, as far as he could be from said people without an inkling of how he was to commit the sedition that was asked of him.
While Sarek gazed out towards the horizon, he noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. Reds and oranges crept into sky, streaking across like knives. The underbellies of the clouds were shot through with silver, and grey became violent shades of violet. Even the waters lost its terror, as they reflected the myriad of colors above them. The sun was setting – infiltrating the layer between the ground and the clouds and ridding of darkness and shadows. Powerless to overcome its great power, the skies and seas tamed before his eyes.
Sarek rested his hand along the top of the cool marble railing. Another matter to consider was Amanda's katra.
He had only met two others like her - those who were strong enough to completely drown out the recipient's senses, effectively blinding them to the external world. One was a Terran male who Sarek had met on Vulcan eight years ago during a simple diplomatic transaction that scarcely lasted for four minutes. Later, upon curiosity, Sarek had sent discrete agents to follow him. A normal Terran on all accounts, except for his certain proclivity for slavery. He had nearly two dozen, all of which were scarcely ever seen in public.
The second was T’Pau, the current Consul of Vulcan.
What he knew of this kind of katra was limited only to personal experience. He knew only that these katras existed and that they affected him immensely - unpleasantly. Like an electrical circuit overloading, his damaged nerves from his old injury responded in an undesirable manner. To feel such loss of control was unnerving, both mentally and physically. The solution was simple and easy to execute - avoid physical contact with such persons, including Amanda Grayson.
Sarek gave a last, slow inhale of the salty air, the cold cutting his lungs mercilessly, before giving a measured turn.
His attention immediately fell on the figure standing approximately twenty feet away – the same figure that had been following him since he exited the Weapons Sector building. Tall with straight, unyielding posture. Sarek could tell from their stance that it was a Vulcan.
His gaze lasted scarcely a second – an outside observer wouldn’t even have noticed. Walking briskly to his apartment, he noticed the figure beginning to follow him after a precise five second lapse. Sarek didn’t change his pace, nor did he at any point look behind him. He did not need to – he could hear their light, measured footsteps.
Scanning his badge at the front door, Sarek entered his complex. Arms crossed, the guard at the front watched him with flat, beady eyes as he crossed the lobby.
Reaching the turbo lift, Sarek pressed the button for up just as he heard the entrance door softly open and swing shut. Their footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, stopping right beside him. Sarek still didn’t look.
Sarek reflected on his earlier conversation with Amanda. Sarek did not believe in coincidence.
The door gave a piercing ding and slowly creaked open. Sarek swiftly entered first. Stopping, he turned and calmly met the Vulcan’s stare.
It was a female, he saw. Hood down, the female’s pale eyes – a grey several shades lighter than Sarek’s – pierced through his. She was the same height as he with a willowy, slant figure. Her hair was a rare shade of platinum. It was a feature common only in the equator of Vulcan, where it was so searing that it was said to have entirely bleached away the pigment in their strands.
“Your floor?” he inquired, never looking away from her flat, smooth features. He estimated she was around his age.
She had a smooth, deep voice that was striking though nonetheless pleasant. “Three.”
He pressed the button for three, then four for himself. She stopped beside him, and they both faced the front.
The lift’s door slid closed, and the floor began to vibrate.
They only had seconds, and he was certain there were cameras, but without even looking at him, the female suddenly grabbed his wrist.
Unlike with Amanda, this was controlled. The female – T’Priah, her mind whispered – didn’t allow her katra to brush against his. Instead, she projected a series of images. The images flashed so fast that they began to blur, but Sarek absorbed it all.
A rundown, chained up entrance that entered the ground –
A sign – ‘Montgomery Street Station’ –
The Underground – a series of empty tunnels once used for transportation. Outdated. Abandoned. Subway, he learned it was called –
Down – left – left – right –
One week, she whispered. 2200 Imperial time –
Ding.
Sarek’s eyes – which had remained open – steadily blinked to see the lift’s door open, waiting. Without pause or a glance back, Sarek exited the lift.
Notes:
As always comments are appreciated - I'd love to hear what you guys think about this so far! All the best <3
Chapter Text
Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations represents a belief that beauty, growth, progress all result from the union of the unlike. Concord, as much as discord, requires the presence of at least two different notes. The brotherhood of man is an ideal based on learning to delight in our essential differences, as well as learning to recognize our similarities. The circle and triangle combine to produce the gemstone in the center as the union of words and music creates song, or the union of mates creates children.
Translated excerpt of “Kol-Ut-Shan” (unknown date) written by unknown author. Text was banned by the Vulcan High Council 130 years before the Occupation for “outdated and blasphemous teachings.”
STATUS: BURNED.
There was an advantage that came with residing in one of the most dilapidated, neglected, uncared for complex in the Eternal City: the security was terrible.
The single panel beside his front door, for instance, took him only 3.1 minutes to disable. According to the cheerful, irritatingly bright WELCOME pamphlet that was left on the kitchen counter, the device was meant to signal to the guards in the lobby if he were to ever leave his quarters beyond curfew.
Truthfully, he only disabled his panel out of curiosity – a mild indulgence. Because even if he chose to walk out the door, there were still the cameras in the hallway, as well as another in the lift. Not to mention the security guards in the lobby.
Still these security measures were rather simplistic, to be concise. On his homeworld, Starfleet soldiers covered nearly every populated space with up-to-date cameras, sensors, and identity recognition with the sole purpose of tracking their subjects’ movements for almost every second. Truthfully just a step away from injecting trackers directly inside them. It was thus somewhat surprising to see such lapse in care when it came to xenoforms on Terra.
He concluded that security was a luxury. The best and most expensive lines of defense were obtained by the rich and privileged, who often had the most enemies as well as the most to lose. Furthermore, here on the World of the Heavens, Terrans vastly outnumbered Vulcans. Why would they give some of their own wealth simply to watch over those who they thought as scum? After all, one deviant xenoform would be very easy to spot here.
His complex, one of handful of buildings dedicated to the containment of xenoforms, was sandwiched between a hotel and an apartment (serving only Terrans, of course), and all three buildings shared a narrow back alleyway. Terrans valued discretion, and it was common for residential buildings to have backdoors for a more clandestine exit. He had performed a short assessment the morning prior by taking a short walk and saw no visible cameras in the alley, which was conveniently where his main room’s window overlooked.
Even more fortuitously, it included a fire escape.
His feet quietly landed on the rickety, creaking metal platform, and he carefully shut the window behind him. He wore a long black coat with a hood that covered his ears. He carried no weapon, but that was not novel. He preferred his hands - cleaner and more contained.
He passed by three residences on his way down. One had their curtains firmly shut. Another showed a sparse, dim living room with children’s playing blocks lying unused on the ground. The ground floor was pitch-black. Sarek squinted and saw only piles of boxes and furniture – likely some storage area for the building.
The fire escape hovered a good meter and a half above the ground. There was a ladder he could use to pull down, and his hands tugged on it forcibly. Grit and dirt soon stained his palms, but the ladder refused to yield.
No matter. He swung his legs over the ledge and after a measured second, jumped.
He landed on his feet easily, his knees bending to absorb the shock. With Terra’s lighter gravity, the rebound was less than if he were to have done the same on Vulcan. A gratifying, rejuvenating wave of satisfaction swept through him at his display of enhanced strength. (Though he must do more strenuous physical exercise here to ensure his muscles are maintained and his body does not get soft and weightless.)
Straightening, Sarek swept his gaze around him. Upon seeing no other individual, he began to walk.
Staying by the shadows, he moved like someone who had lived here for years rather than for only a week. The ease and familiarity weren’t his, however, but were in fact sourced from a transaction – exogenous in origin. The memories that drove his steps were not entirely clear nor vivid, but rather muscle memory, for a different set of muscles. While the giver was similar in height, they moved in a more solid pace – indicative, perhaps, of having long been accustomed to Terra’s gravity.
The floor gleamed under his silent steps. Everything was wet here, even though he had yet to experience rain in the week that he has been on Terra. The boundless mist, undoubtedly, sought to reach claim over all of the Eternal City. That, as well as the chilly winds that streaked across the grid roads like rampant animals.
After Sarek reached a dark intersection. The narrow roads here were evidently long unused. While the main streets were made of gleaming cobblestones, these abandoned ones had innumerable weeds, cracks, and holes scarring the cement. Yellow CAUTION tape outlined the perimeter of the square, but Sarek did not hesitate in crossing over.
The farthest corner had a squat, little overhang that seemed as misplaced as it did old. Its glass roof seemed long broken, so that it was only a skeleton of iron and steel. An advertisement poster had once been hung in the glass, but most words were long erased. What was left was an image of an indiscriminate human man. The ink of his mouth spread, staining his grin with red.
Only one phrase was legible: “Be part of the beginning – Ex astris, gloria.” From the stars, glory.
The closer he approached, the more the silhouette of a stairway became apparent. It headed deep into the ground, until all he could see was black. Broken chains littered the stairway, and the steel gate that once blocked people off from entering was swaying on hinges.
Above the entrance was a broken electrical sign. In the past, it must have gleamed a bright white, but now, its words were casted in shadows.
MONTGOMERY STREET STATION
Sarek turned on his flashlight, and a beam of white shone down the stairwell. With a hint of dissatisfaction, Sarek began his descent.
The earthy, thick scent of mold and mildew was the first feature to greet him. It crawled and clung against the grimy, once-white tiled walls, the damp steps beneath his feet, and even in the air. Beneath it, however, was a nauseating stench of feces and decay. He could faintly hear a small animal shuffling and squeaking as he reached down below.
Once past the old ticket machines and guard rails, the ceilings rose to a substantial height, revealing a large manmade chasm. Dirty, empty benches filled what appeared to be a waiting area. Maps of the Eternal City covered the walls, but these were made during a time when it was still known as San Francisco. Streaks of what could have been mud or blood were painted across the floors and splattered across a section of the wall, not unlike that of an archaic gunshot.
He walked over to the edge of the platform to see subway tracks running across the floor and deep into the tunnels. He jumped down, and the gravel cracked under his feet. He shone his flashlight down into the tunnel, but its curvature prevented him from seeing anything more than twenty feet. The walls were painted a bright, chipping red like the walls of arteries.
It was fitting that the great Eternal City was built on a skeleton, he thought with faint contempt, as he began to make his journey deep into the belly of the city.
Sarek walked for quite a bit time, accompanied only by the darkness around him – as well as the occasional rodent that took great lengths to escape his beam of light. A ghost of unease brushed over him – a logical response for finding himself in a dark, decaying place in the ground, but he pushed it deep within him until he could feel it no longer.
He disliked these tunnels. Why the Terrans ever had thought to look to the ground for answers, Sarek did not know. The whole sky – the stars, the universe was up above them, and yet they first decided to bury themselves into the soil. But he supposed it was best that they had remained so enamored by the dirt rather than the skies for so long. Their history in the intergalactic realm was startlingly short – not even two centuries - yet incredibly destructive.
Thus for all of their faults, their culture was undeniably something singular, something to inspect and dissect. It was why he even agreed ultimately with his father to transition from astrophysical research to politics. Sarek had thought his younger brother shared such interests, but Silek in actuality had struggled to think in a distant, unattached manner. Driven by something as foolish as resentment and anger, Silek was always doomed.
Still, Sarek should not bode on such matters. While he certainly does not carry a fondness for the Terran people, he was aware of his peculiar “fascination” in the workings Terra. He had been in repeated close contact with only one of its inhabitants in the days he has been here – the very one responsible for why he was here.
He still was not certain why Consul T'Pau specifically sent him. For the past week, Amanda Grayson had assigned him mainly physical responsibilities. It was to get him acclimated to where things went, she had said, as she continued to give him several boxes of books to place on shelves and sort in the Library. Most of the books they received since his arrival were rather harmless. Thus he saw that although she did deal with sensitive, insurgent-related material, she also dealt with the mundane. Regardless, he utilized to do what he came to Terra to do - observe. Vulcans, for all their dislike towards emotional expressions, were consequently well versed in detecting even the slightest slip. Sarek personally considered himself to be adept in studying one’s character.
Rebecca, for example, was as unremarkable and restless as she was the first day he met her. She comes in three times a week for a handful of hours at a time for most administrative reasons – scheduling and sorting and sending Amanda’s many, many packages. Rebecca was a speck that he had easily begun to ignore.
Meanwhile, Sarek could spend hours just observing Amanda, and he has been (to further understand her mentality, of course). It was easy – Amanda demanded attention. Although she spent most of her time in her office, doors closed, any time she stepped out, it was a though all light and space bent towards her. Her own gravity well. She liked reading on the chaise longue and then restoring art on the central table – at the opposite end from where Sarek would frequent. In other words, she liked to sprawl.
Yet her movements themselves were contained. Just a simple softening of her eyes, a raised corner of her mouth, a slight lean back as she sat. It felt very natural yet intentional, as seamless as silk. And all throughout, her eyes would remain unwaveringly fixed on the object of her attention, whether it be a book or him. It has happened a couple of times. In the midst of organizing or reading, his eyes would flicker across – he could not go too long without looking at her, not when it felt like he was in a room with a predator – and she would be gazing directly at him.
It always perplexed him. In the beginning, he had expected her to look away upon being caught, like most Terrans do. But she’d only smile and continue looking at him as though he was a specimen in a glass cage.
His foot kicked a small object, and Sarek tensed at the loud, rattling noise produced. His flashlight quickly found the empty metal can against the wall.
He then noticed a soft rumbling sound coming from down the tunnel. He considered the possibility of a train coming, but the ground was still and the sound was unchanging over time. A small draft brushed his cheeks, and he concluded he was close.
She known as T’Priah was careful to not show him the destination. Naturally, she didn’t trust him yet. Thus, he only captured some of her quick impressions of the place, namely –
Clamorous –
Malodorous –
Disorderly –
Dangerous.
The rumbling grew louder – more chaotic – as he grew closer, and Sarek realized with a start that it was actually voices. A lot of them. It sounded like a large crowd was shouting at the top of their lungs.
Eventually, Sarek could see a faint, flickering light at the end of the tunnel.
His eyebrows faintly furrowed as he squinted, and he realized that it flickered because it – wherever it was – was packed with people that blocked the doorway.
Suddenly, a dark, shadowed figure tumbled out of the light. They lurched violently to the side, before pushing themselves off of the wall – directly towards Sarek.
Immediately, his hand gripping their shoulder, Sarek pushed. The person gracelessly stumbled back, and Sarek followed with an unyielding strength. He pinned them forcibly against the wall, and he was affronted by the putrid scent of sweat and alcohol.
“Fuckin’ Christ, man,” spat the person – a male. Terran, Sarek realized. His puffy face was red and his eyes glassy. His thickly accented voice slurred, and spit flew from his mouth. “Let go eff meh – you fuckin’ pixie twat.”
Sarek obliged, and the man immediately drooped down. For a moment, Sarek expected the Terran would fall on his face, but he instead stumbled away, a glass bottle in hand.
Only when the man disappeared into the darkness did Sarek look away. Wary, he shifted his hood back in place. However, with his eyebrows, height, and beard, he did not believe it would give him much respite from recognition for too long.
It would be unfortunate if T’Priah indeed lured him into a Terran hotspot, he thought, as he stepped into the light.
It must have been a formidable subway station in the past. With a domed ceiling that was several stories high and being as wide as a block, the underground cavern was humongous. Sarek was standing at the entrance of one of four lines of tracks running across the station, each of which were ridden with weeds from neglect. Several octagonal kiosks that once sold tickets were now mere skeletons with broken windows. Most of the walls were lined with white tiles and gold that must have gleamed once upon a time but were now streaked with grime.
Concerningly, the northwest part of the station appeared to have been blown open. White, cracked tiles covered in soot abruptly gave way to black, natural stone of Terra. Haphazardly cut scraps of metal were wrought onto the walls in precarious attempts to fortify the ceiling from tumbling down.
But Sarek was surprised not simply because of the station’s sheer size, but because of the people that teemed it.
There were Terrans, yes. But it was mostly composed of almost just as much of everything else – Orions, Vulcans, Denobulans, Andorians, and more – many of which Sarek didn’t even recognize. They all meshed together in a diverse crowd that seemed to be milling around the station. The flow of movement followed that of a path of stalls.
It was a market, he realized.
Hanging above them all from the center of the dome was a large, circular clock. It was fixed at precisely 6:47, and a crack split entirely through the center of its face. Engraved beneath it were giant gold letters.
EMBACADERO STATION
Sarek stepped forward and merged into the crowd.
Immediately, Sarek had to suppress his urge to violently push away those around him. They bumped into him with scarcely a glance or apology. It was stiflingly hot, even for him. The moist air was thick with the smell of sweat, and he for once longed for the cold outside. His height, at least, allowed him to breathe the air above the sea of people. His ears were assaulted with loud shouting that only seemed to echo in the cavern.
“Watch your step, dipshit!”
Sarek stared down a Tellerite, who’s heel he evidently stepped upon. The ugly creature scowled at him and bumbled away.
This place was certainly illegal. The first sign being that all of them were obviously disobeying curfew. Second, Sarek saw no sign of Starfleet or the Eternal Guards anywhere.
And third was the glaringly obvious contraband that was being sold in the stalls, each one manned by a seller who would bellow over their competitors.
“TELLERITE BIRDS OF ALL MANNER – 1000 IMPERIAL CREDITS – ”
“GET SOME EXOTIC BOTANY FROM ALL PARTS OF THE SECTOR – ”
At one corner, prostitutes lined the path – males and females preening under the leery gazes that passed them. They would sway their hips and physically grasp those who stared for a second too long. Sarek watched an Orion woman grab a man by the collar. Sarek could see fogginess creep into the Terran’s eyes as the pheromones crept in.
They all rather obviously ignored Sarek, knowing that Vulcans would not fall victim to their biology. One male, however, nearly draped himself on Sarek. “I’ll be here all night,” he purred.
It became more apparent that most of the smugglers manning the stalls were xenoforms, and it was the Terrans who bought from them. Most of the Terrans seemed to be of low rank, like those living in the Middle Ring. Some stumbled around in their cleaning uniforms as they spent what little money they made on sex, drugs, and drinks.
But occasionally, Sarek’s eyes would catch on a few Terrans that did not appear to belong. These individuals wore dark – yet clean – clothing that was rather unremarkable. But they wore their hoods up and were often surrounded by others who were undoubtedly guards. They seemed uninterested in the garish displays of the stalls, but instead often met with equally low-profile individuals who seemed to sell goods that couldn’t be put on display.
Sarek mused on what could be worse than drugs and slaves and prostitutes.
As he reached the opposite end of the cavernous station, the crowd began to thin. In the northwest quadrant of the station, scorch marks stained the floor and walls. Debris from whatever explosion was here still littered the floor. The rocky ground sloped steeply down the crater and was covered in a thin layer of powdery dirt and soot that kicked up with every step. The air was thick and abrasive, but the large crowd there did not seem to mind. They jumped and cheered on the rows and rows of steel, rusting benches that overlooked down into the lowest part of the pit.
It was the strangest spectacle he had ever seen. An Andorian and a Terran were caught in a violent, impassioned embrace. Groans and grunts coming out of their twisted mouths. Arms locked around each other’s torsos and necks. Fists slamming against ribs and temples.
Sarek’s ears ached from the screams and jeers unleashed by the audience. They responded to every blow and stumble with an ugly hunger. More, more, more they seemed to be calling for.
A voice bellowed out with impressive breath from within the chaos.
“Bets! Bets! Place your bets here! Who will win? Our Sun-Shining Empire – or a member of the now-conquered Imperial Guard, now coming for vengeance? PLACE YOUR BETS NOW!”
Sarek intended to keep walking – he was not interested in this graceless display of violence. But as the smaller Terran (and faster) lunged and a gash of blue spilt from above the Andorian’s eye, the frenzied crowd leaned in in anticipation.
A still, tall figure stood out starkly against the chaos. She looked at Sarek pointedly, as though blood did not just splatter on the tracks beneath them. Then, she turned and began to make her way further up the benches where the crowd thinned out.
Sarek did not let his displeasure show. Instead after some not-so-gentle shoves and stare downs, Sarek wound his way to the northwest corner of the station where T’Priah stood like a judge high above the squandering audience. They were far from the dense core of bodies, simply appearing like mildly curious bystanders avoiding the crowd.
The Andorian – half of its face now painted with brilliant blue – managed to heave and slam the Terran onto the ground.
“A questionable location for a meeting,” he remarked calmly, just above the responding cheers.
Her Terran was seamless – none of the blunt, sharp consonants that characterize the Vulcan accent like his own. "I find that this environment is ideal for a private conversation.”
She was not incorrect, he supposed. They were far enough from the raucous crowd to hear one another, but the cheering would provide enough cover from them being overheard.
As the Terran shifted, a small, circular tattoo was revealed in his inner forearm, just an inch below the inside of his elbow. Slaves had the same insignia branded onto the back of their necks.
“He is with Starfleet.”
“A cadet,” confirmed T’Priah. “He is preparing to pass the Academy’s Gladiatorial, the final rite before he is promoted to ensign.”
“Nonetheless, this activity and this place – ” Sarek said, nodding over the heads of the crowd “ – is blatantly illegal, yet it exists. The Empire surely must know about it.”
The Terran’s knife moved in very fast and precise slashes, though they were mere cuts for the large, thick-skinned Andorian. And although the xenoform was injured, it still far out-matched the Terran in speed.
T’Priah did not answer immediately, seemingly enraptured by the game at hand. He took advantage of the lapse, and noted that she did not appear to be the austere, solemn figure as she did from far away. She was leaning forward, swaying with the crowd to obtain a view. T'Priah's eyes reacted to the violence, widening in clear interest - perhaps even delight?
It seemed that the Terran did not prepare for the slickness of the blood spilling on the floor. The cadet's left foot slid, and the Andorian lunged forward, teeth bared.
She breathed out, leaning back. “Don’t mistake allowance for passivity.”
He then followed T’Priah’s pointed gaze to see a small crowd that was on the railroad tracks, unlike the rest of the audience on the stands. In level with the fighters, they thus had the best vantage point. They wore simple, dark clothing, though the fabrics were clean and fine. Nonetheless, they threw their fists and jeered just like everyone else.
“The Patricians are why the Underground is allowed to exist. They come here to get things they cannot get out there. Silks from Kraus IV, narcotics from Brekka, art, jewelry, foods – items considered exotic and luxurious to Terrans. Of course, this is all done in secret. They cannot publicly admit to the hypocrisy they represent – denouncing and ridiculing the cultures of other worlds while also seeking it themselves.
“There’s no law enforcement or Starfleet here. Rarely any Terran uses their real names, and it’s not uncommon for people to cover their faces lest they get blackmailed or prosecuted for treason." She gestured to the rest of the crowd. “You have your average citizens and servants and xenoforms – each taking as much advantage of this not-so-hidden blind spot within the Eternal City.”
“This is a breeding ground for conflict.”
“Or coordination.”
“I see no difference, and neither would the Empire.” Sarek gazed at her, disproving. “T’Kuht is quite adamant that we leave no mark.”
T’Kuht. The Watcher. The Old Name of Vulcan’s sister planet, now designated by the Terrans as Charis. A constant presence in their skies, and thus Consul T’Pau shared its name among her ever-expanding telepathic network.
“So long as you do not foolishly denounce the Empire nor show sign of rebellion, such as carrying or trading military grade weaponry, then T’Kuht can see just adequately from here. There is nowhere else like the Underground we can familiarize with ourselves with all ranges of Terrans, as well as xenoforms. She appreciates this vantage point.”
Her comparative pallor, her too-high chin, her too-tight jaw, and her perfect, unaccented Terran - she carried herself like a Terran. Spoke like one. Furthermore, T’Pau’s agents, him included, do not converse amongst themselves so openly. Brushes, fleeting moments of contacts – these were all acts that were difficult for the Empire to trace and use as signs of espionage or sedition. There was also less likelihood that should one be caught in the Empire’s grasp, they would not be able to provide much if any information about other agents.
Spies were extremely rare among his people, for any who seemed even just a degree too inclined towards xenophilia were swiftly detected and eliminated.
T’Priah nodded. “You do not trust me. That is expected.”
“Your mannerisms give rise to suspicion.”
“How so?”
Sarek only arched an eyebrow in response.
She lifted a shoulder and dropped it - a dismissive movement he's seen from Terrans many times. “I have resided here ever since I was a child.”
“Vulcans do not send younglings, and neither do the Empire request for them.”
“Five of us without clan, all at the age of 10, were sent to Terra forty-six years ago. There was a now-discontinued program in which Terrans raised xenoform younglings, and Consul T’Pau chose us herself.”
Consul T’Pau at a crèche for the clanless – and then sending them to Terra? It was not entirely without logic – if the Empire truly demanded Vulcan children, his people were not one to give up a member of a clan. It would also explain how T’Priah came to be in T’Pau’s network.
“Clarify your current role on Terra.”
“I am involved in weapons testing.”
“Then you work for – ”
“Leon Grayson. CEO of Grayson Industries.”
“Half-brother to Amanda Grayson,” finished Sarek. As he told Amanda just days prior, he did not believe in coincidence, much less when it came to the Graysons. He would not put it beyond them to even turn one of his people against their own.
As if hearing his suspicions, T’Priah cocked her head, her pale hair rippling. “Ah. I forget myself. My regards for your father and your brother. I grieve with thee.”
Sarek did not even blink. “You are mistaken. I do not have a brother.”
A hint of maddening satisfaction was visible on her face. “Forgive me. A half-brother, who is called Silek, according to T’Kuht.”
No one knew about his relationship to Silek, not even their father. Not even the consul – at least he thought so until now. He also would not have thought that She-who-is-all-knowing would have acquired such an unorthodox agent as was a Terran-raised Vulcan
“A traitor to the Empire. I do not speak that name, and neither,” he said “ – should you.”
“We have no interest in outing your relationship to another dead traitor. It would serve me – and T’Kuht – no purpose to bring a stain to the S’chn T’gai clan in the eyes of the Empire. Your clan is already scorned by most of the Vulcan people.”
His tone was smooth, unwavering. “I will not be insulted by a k’shatri.” A foreign-born. Outcast.
“Of course,” she said. “What are of importance are that we fulfill our roles – and the current company that you keep.” She turned her arm so that her hand rested palm-down on top of her thigh. “Now show me what you have seen.”
It was considered telepathic practice to reflect on the day’s events during meditations. Reflect, sort, review, discard. It heightened a Vulcan’s mental capabilities and control. Such is what he did every day and more – he also prepared his memories in the eventual event that an agent of T’Pau would approach, even if they were as unorthodox as T’Priah. The memories of his time with Amanda Grayson were essentially stripped until they consisted only of his physical senses – sight, touch, scent, taste, sound. No private thoughts, and certainly no emotions.
Such is what he directed at the front of his mind when he placed his hand around T’Priah’s arm.
Rather than simply take the memories for her own, she rifled through them like an impatient child seeking the end of a story. Fast and relentless but unrefined.
A flicker of her satisfaction was felt before she pulled away.
Sarek immediately inquired, “Is there a war?”
“There is always a war, but nothing that is concrete in public knowledge.”
“Terran citizens are unaware of Starfleet’s activities?”
“They know enough, that there is only one enemy. Cardassians, Romulans, Klingons – even us Vulcans. There is only them versus us. Any propaganda released are battles that they have already won – squashing a rebellion or colonizing a system. Anything else is under the umbrella phrase of going to the ‘final frontier’. For even if one war is won, the Terrans will never be sated when they know there are still others beyond their control.”
“How does this relate to the Graysons?”
“The Graysons supply the ammunition, not just with weapons but information, as seen through Amanda Grayson. Not to mention, their patriarch is a current admiral of Starfleet. If there is one family that would be most involved in warfare, it is them. Of course, there are other families similar in status - the Patrician class is based on survival and is given status by the Emperor to encourage loyalty. The Archers have influence in starship design and build. The slavery and trade sectors are led by the Mudds. The Lius, on the other hand, control the banks. There are others in the Eternal City but these four are the most influential. The rest are in Paris, Beijing, Sydney, and Cairo.”
These were young families – names that only became relevant during the Terran expansion into space. The only old family was the Lius, who even Sarek heard had been established since the Eugenic Wars over two centuries ago. After all, money rarely changes.
Suddenly, the crowd became frenzied. But by the time Sarek looked, the battle was over.
The Andorian's body was being dragged out to the side, leaving behind a smear of blue. The Terran cadet - brimming with youth - was pumping his fist into the air, spit dribbling from his mouth. He carried a knife that Sarek was certain was not in his possession moments ago. Many men around cheered, while others groaned. Already thinking of their empty pockets.
T'Priah stood suddenly, backlit by the bustling station. Her pale hair glinted like stardust, as she said, "I am currently needed elsewhere. However, it would be unfortunate if we lost another ally, so I will assist you to ensure your transition to Terra uncomplicated, Sarek. Help is rare, and the Eternal City contains many secrets and its citizens even more so. "
"Is that all that is required of me?"
"It is up to you. I will be here tomorrow, and the next. And the night after that. You need only find me. Any other questions?"
"I have one." Another ally, she had said. "Specify - who did you lose?"
T'Priah did not even hesitate. "Your predecessor."
Notes:
I am a bit shook at how these four chapters are already ~1/3 the word count of A Case Study - I am not entirely sure if that's a good thing tbh! It's quite long, but I'm trying to establish the setting and relationships for the whole story. Everything picks up in chp 7! So I hope you guys are enjoying the story, and as always I'd love to hear what you think! All the best <3
Chapter Text
>>> SHORT-RANGE TRANSMISSION SENT BY ADM. MARCUS GRAYSON. STARDATE 2220.42
Rosalyn, enough. Come down.
>>> RECEIVED BY ROSALYN COCHRANE. STARDATE 2220.42
>>> LEVEL 2 ALERT: ROGUE SHUTTLECRAFT IN ATTACHED COORDINATES. ALL AIRCRAFTS WITHIN 50 MILES ARE TO GROUND.
As Sarek became a regular to the Underground, he began to understand its addictive nature. Beyond its foul, stifling air and the ever-present layer of soot and dirt, it was where the undesirable dregs of every species flocked to relieve themselves of their undesirable wants.
Each of the eight rail line entrances, for example, offered something for everyone in the mouths of the tunnels. In Track 1 North, you had humanoids of all kinds offering their body – pulling customers deep inside for a short moment of pleasure. If you wanted the longer kind of release – or a numbness, then 3 South had slumps of bodies with glazed eyes and smoky air and scattered needles. You could gamble away your money, acquire the services of a trained killed (typically ex-Starfleet officers who returned home with no honors, no glory), and find an outlet for just about any sordid desire – all just a train track away.
For the more mild-tempered and softer of heart, you could even be something more dangerous – a connection. You can purchase a spice or a candle or an artwork reminiscent of their stolen home or culture. Perhaps gain even a likeminded ally. At your own discretion, of course. The punishment for carrying contraband is steep, and you never knew who a wandering eye for the Empire was.
T’Priah was an interesting case. For one, Sarek did not know there were Vulcans like her – those who spent most of their life on Terra. He still did not know why she was sent here as a child – she logically did not reveal much – but he could see how such an upbringing away from his people’s clandestine teachings influenced her countenance. While a Terran would think her as Vulcan as he, there were subtle lapses in control and flares in emotion that was notable to himself. In this way, she nearly reminded him of Silek. Youthful, determined, relentless.
Secondly, it was futile to deny that she clearly had ties to some less-than-legal doings, as well as people (not including himself, of course). Even when the two met nearly nightly (outwardly, to watch a good, bloody battle in the ring - sometimes they even gambled to hold up the illusion) he could sense that he was being watched. Yet by the time he looked over, he’d only see a whip of their cloak disappearing into the crowd. While they may walk together to the Underground from their shared residential complex, T’Priah always stayed behind.
One night, as they watched an Orion and an Andorian turn the floor of the ring green and blue, T’Priah had spent longer than usual rummaging through his memories of his time in Level Forty-Seven, even going back to the few days prior to be extra thorough. It was quite an aggravating experience. T’Priah’s mind was like an unrefined knife – blunt and bruising.
“Is there a topic in particular you are seeking?”
She took a moment to reply, her mind lingering on a conversation he had with Amanda earlier today about Vulcan hierarchy. “Has she brought up anything in relation to rocks or stones? Environmental studies, geology, fossils?”
“A Klingon book relating to Kronos’ geographic features."
"Is that all?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?”
The corners of her mouth were tipped downward – she was frowning – when she met his eyes in contemplation.
She would likely deny answering this. T’Priah held back many information and often did not answer his questions – how many are in the network, who is your point of contact, how did my predecessor die?
“Because we recently acquired an item through illegal means, and I am curious as to whether there are efforts being made by the Terrans in searching for it.”
His voice came out sharp. “From whom did you take from? Is T’Kuht overseeing this?”
“She is quite aware of the situation, I assure you. As for who – ” T’Priah tilted her head. “I am certain that Amanda Grayson would be one of the first to know of theft at this facility. She is one of the owners, after all.”
T’Priah – a researcher at Graysons Industries. “That is – ”
She seemed to have reached the end of her generosity. “The Terrans likely will not provide a large response to its absence. However, if there are any readings related to the topics I’ve mentioned previously, inform me. Make yourself useful."
"As you can see," he said. "My days in Level Forty-Seven are rather repetitious."
"Then go outside Level Forty-Seven if you must. Amanda Grayson does, so you should too."
Sarek was greeted by a soft, warbling melody. Sarek was not wholly familiar with Terran instruments, but there were the sharp and sweet notes of a string instrument and the deeper bellows of percussion. The sound was not clear, however, with hints of static disrupting the flow. He cautiously walked in and immediately found the culprit – the archaic music player at the corner of the square library. With a swooping horn that appeared not unlike a blossoming flower, the bronze gramophone carried a large spinning disk. Interesting - he did not believe it was even still functional.
Amanda was laying on the chaise lounge, a long chair allowing one to stretch their legs out with a swooping back for one to recline against upright. One arm was bent behind her head, while the other carried a book above. Her hair was neatly swept to the side over her shoulder. A closed notebook rested beside her. Her heels placed neatly on the floor, her bare feet tucked under her skirt. He had yet to see anyone use the furniture in the near month he had been here, though Rebecca did vaguely refer it once as ‘Amanda’s chair.’
Now that T'Priah had suggested stalking Amanda Grayson outside Level Forty-Seven (because surely that was what she had implied), Sarek pondered what a socialite like Amanda Grayson was like beyond these walls. It was difficult to determine. She was a fixture of this room, just as with the stained wooden floors and the elegantly patterned rug.
When she spoke, Amanda didn’t even look up at him. “On the table.”
There were three books cleanly stacked, waiting. He sat in a clean, swift motion on the eastern side– thus allowing him to face the distracted Amanda.
All three were filled with little tabs sticking out, each with Amanda’s slanted, cursive writing that was markedly different from the clean, digital Standard he usually sees. They marked wherever Amanda had questions, short phrases that mainly asked about syntax or vocabulary. Occasionally, she’d write only a vague question mark beside a highlighted sentence. Upon her instruction, he wrote simply an ‘X’ for nothing suspicious, and if he found an anomaly in its phrasing or writing, he’d write a short explanation. Mostly, however, there was rarely anything too inconspicuous or out of sorts.
From the first book’s title, he concluded that it was a small, slim dissertation about the now-fallen Confederacy of Vulcan, specifically regarding the Hall of Academics. Its dry, brittle pages crackled under his gentle fingers.
But before he began to read, Sarek gazed at Amanda.
It took her approximately four minutes to give out a sharp, “What is it, darling?”
“Sarek,” he corrected immediately, not for the first time. “The music is intrusive and jarring.”
“And?”
“This is a poor environment for you and me to concentrate on our work.”
She rolled onto her side. Her skirt’s slit revealed her slim legs stretched out, and its silky fabric pooled over the edge of the chaise. Her head was propped up on an elbow, and her book dangled between her fingers.
Her gaze was thoughtful, almost patronizingly so. “Darling, firstly, do not ever speak for me. It is dangerous and arrogant to presume anything in Terra. Secondly, I actually prefer to listen to classical music when reading. Thirdly, to call any piece of Clara Schumann jarring is a transgression fit for the agonizer.”
“It is distracting.”
“Consider it a lesson in Terra culture. Clara lived nearly four centuries ago and was perhaps the most distinguished pianists of the Romantic era. Rarely anyone nowadays can compose something to rival her.” She tossed her hair. “Besides, I thought a Vulcan would be exceptionally able at tolerating and ignoring unwanted stimuli.”
Of course she thought that, and it would be true in many cases. However, the notes were too discontinuous and broken. Jagged. There was no symmetry or clean transition, no geometry in its structure. It was as though this Clara threw every note, whether disharmonious or not, onto the page as though they were her thoughts. It was bordering obscenity.
Sarek could not protest further without staining his ability to focus, so he simply turned his attention back onto the book without a further word.
However, his focus was further sabotaged, as Amanda had a habit of moving. Perhaps when compared to other Terrans, she did not fidget as much. But to a Vulcan? It was just as grating as the music.
She would change her posture approximately every ten minutes, whether it be a swing of the leg or a tilt of the head. Switch from sitting to reclining fully back on the chaise, a book held precariously over her head, and then back again. When reclining, she’d occasionally rest her arm and place the book down and – strangely – stare up at the ceiling. Sometimes she’d close her eyes, as if sleeping.
At one point, she got up to pace across the rug-covered floor barefoot. One hand was bent behind her back, the other holding her notebook. It was a strange habit, one that Sarek rarely sees among his own people. She would pace eight steps along the length of the rug, which ran parallel to Sarek’s table, then slowly turn on her heels to pace back. On and on she went, like a child’s toy.
Upon tiring (he assumed she could only walk along the same path for so long), she stood behind the chaise and leaned her elbows on its backing, as though it was a podium. She rocked back and forth on her heels, her rear swaying as she moved.
Sarek narrowed his eyes and gazed back down at the book. Was this simply how she functioned, or was she was purposely trying to attract his attention? He sincerely did not know. Both seemed quite possible.
By the time he had moved to the second book (a biography about a rather controversial Vulcan philosopher), she was sitting upright and staring at him. Her book laid forgotten beside her, but she was now casting her hand across a blank, white page in long, quick strikes. He could feel the intensity of her gaze as her eyes dauntlessly skimmed over his face as he read. He was certain she was making a substantial effort in eliciting a response from him. But it would take more than a watchful Terran and grating music to evoke a reaction. After catching her eye for the third time, Sarek steadfastly kept his gaze directly on the pages on the table and refused to stray anywhere else.
She opened her mouth, and then – “Why do all of you Vulcans insist on having that ridiculous beard?”
Her dark eyes were narrowed in thought, as she blatantly analyzed his beard.
Pointedly not irritated, Sarek calmly answered, “To honor Surak, the greatest philosopher of our history. It is why male names beginning with ‘S’ are common as well. It is to mark our allegiance to a logic-based lifestyle.” He arched an eyebrow. “Of course, that was the old ways, before we aligned ourselves with Terra. Now, it remains purely out of old cultural significance, as we now honor the Emperor Sato.”
He expected her to fling some quip at him, as she often enjoyed stirring up some sort of debate.
But instead, she simply gave him an unimpressed frown and resumed her actions.
Eventually, Sarek moved onto the third book. As soon as he read the title, he stiffened.
He could feel Amanda’s gaze on him absorbing his every movement, so he deliberately turned the page.
Heat prickled down his neck, and his body instinctively went on the defensive – adding further to his discomfort. The book was extremely factual and detailed – excessively so, in his purely objective opinion. It was borderline explicit. Such a book would have scarcely been tolerated among Vulcans even before the Terran Occupation, much less now.
He despised the thought of her knowing more about this matter than himself. Sarek would have rather burned the book himself instead of letting a Terran get her hands on it.
When Sarek finished, he carefully closed the contemptible book and placed it with the others.
“Unlike the other two books, there are no questions marked on this one.”
Amanda’s eyes flickered up to his, and she sat up.
“I thought that my questions for that particular piece would be best answered through conversation.” She swung her legs down over the side, her ankles delicately crossed. She patted the space next to her. “If you may.”
With a reluctance that he was careful to hide, Sarek stood and crossed the room. He sat stiffly beside her, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He placed the book in between them, providing only a small barrier.
Amanda shifted to face him, pulling one leg up beneath her. Typically, they worked distantly from one another - Sarek preferred to observe from afar, and her personality and words demanded so much space. It was strange to see how small she really was up close.
“Why don’t we do a show-and-tell?” Amanda asked congenially. There was a glimmer in her eye that he had come to learn to be wary of. “I'll go first.”
She held out her opened notebook, and he accepted it.
At the fundamental level, it was nothing but strokes of charcoal grey. Some were harsh lines with granules still laying on top and dirtying his finger, while others were rubbed finely into the grain of the paper to create a smooth gradient. Messy material, at a glance, but able to produce an undeniably striking, accurate representation of the model.
“A strong nose,” she mused, leaning over until he could smell a whiff of her fragrance. Smoke with a subtle sweetness. “Severe cheekbones. Solemn mouth. And those mysterious eyes of yours – I think I did a very excellent job.” His long eyelashes were carefully added with painstaking details. Of course, his pointed ears stood amongst the dark, near black of his straight hair. She was quite an expert at realism, taking great care in defining his features with shadows.
“A job has a purpose.” Sarek handed it back to her. “This has none.”
“Purpose? Darling, I just like to draw pretty things.”
Sarek’s eyebrows furrowed by millimeters, but he quickly smoothed it out under her amused gaze. Her casualness was so – forward. Sarek considered Terrans to be deceptive with twisting, convoluted words, and Vulcans to be straightforward and precise. Yet Amanda was somehow both.
She reached down for a small towel soaked in a bowl of water on the floor. His eyes lingered on her right hand. The pads of her fingertips and palms were stained with charcoal. He had learned early on that Amanda despised uncleanliness to the point of unreason. For instance, she had a 12-step protocol in cleaning her paint brushes that she had taken the time to personally train him until he perfected it – she was concerningly particular about the angle of holding them, the temperature of the water, the order at which he completed it. It seemed that only when doing art or restoration did she seem to lax in her demands.
This was the most dirty he had seen her, and he found himself particularly engrossed when she pulled out a wrung her fingers through the cloth. Grey rivulets streaked down the slant of her fingers and into the bowl. It turned the water into a cloudy, dusty grey.
She then held up his own book. Amanda certainly reminded him of a preying, playing le-matya. Beyond the sweet, charming façade, she carried a more dangerous intent.
“I,” she began with a faint smile, “found this to be quite fascinating.”
His mouth tightened. “This is a delicate matter among Vulcans.”
“I am not surprised. I could scarcely imagine someone like yourself – Vulcan, I mean – becoming something like that of a ‘brute’, using the author’s words, of course.”
“It does not occur often. Every – ”
“Seven years,” she said flippantly. “Yes, I am aware. It explains quite a bit, honestly. The Empire has long known that Vulcans go a little haywire every seven years. But I, and I’m sure all of Terra, was under the impression that you went bloodthirsty rather than… impassioned.”
“It is one and the same. The very nature that drives our need to – reproduce is the same one that drives our urge to kill.”
“Ah, yes,” she hummed, tilting her head. Her curtain of glossy hair fell over her shoulder, and a floral scent hit him mercilessly. “What was it called again? Yam-something?”
His back was taut, like a creature moments away from pouncing (he did not know whether away or towards). “Yamareen, a hormone produced only by Vulcans. Its release into the bloodstream induces aggressive behavior. At a high enough dosage, it reduces us into nothing more than animals.”
“That’s like all men, really. I don’t know why you are all so flustered about it.”
“It is more potent than the Terran testosterone. Yamareen takes away our thoughts, our mind. It is the greatest offense to be reduced to the control of our desires of a primitive kind – on either killing or reproduction.”
“Then why is it we know only about the former?” Amanda arched her eyebrow. “It would be rather obvious if all of our Vulcans were running amok in the streets looking to fuck the nearest living thing.”
The curse word fell from her lips easily and almost elegantly. Sarek tightened his right fist in his coat pocket.
Amanda surely could not understand. And he despised the evident amusement she gained from seeing him squirm. She was the single worst person he knew to have such a conversation, and not simply because she was the controller of information in the Empire. This was demeaning in every sense of the word.
He was getting too agitated. Sarek reached and found that discomfort that was beginning to be felt in his chest and brought it deep inside into it was but a small buzz in his thoughts. The faint crease between his eyebrows, the stiffness of his spine, and even the edge in his voice disappeared. Amanda blinked.
“In the weeks prior to pon farr, our body begins to slowly release small amounts of yamareen. During this time – or even before, we can become attracted to a nearby Vulcan, whether it be physical or mental. The attraction grows until it becomes a fixation – an obsession. At that point, there is a delicate line at which the Vulcan will fail to maintain control. When that occurs, the Vulcan would feel only a mindless need to seek that individual to sate their lust. They will do whatever they can to do so, including killing without hesitation.”
“It sounds terribly cut and dry. What does killing and reproduction have to do with one another?”
“Yamareen as a hormone first and foremost causes aggression, but it stimulates our reproductive system as well. If left unsated, the Vulcan will produce high amounts of yamareen until it eventually becomes toxic. It can only be countered by ash’evik, a hormone released in the aftermaths of sex, as well as in the consuming of blood. Evolution has created us in such a way, since my people were once as volatile and violent as Klingons. It forces us to reproduce and go against our ideology, even now. That is why it is often so that unions are pre-arranged before one’s pon farr occurs. It allows us to focus on that single individual and to build a connection. Upon consummation, pon farr would end.”
He only then noticed that Amanda was closer to him than was proper. Amanda was leaned purposely towards him, her supporting hand just inches from his thigh. The red gem of her wedding ring glinted at him.
“So the hormone that makes you aroused is also what makes you want to kill someone?”
“Yes.”
“How do you differentiate between the two?”
“You do not. Pon farr is a dangerous, uncontrollable event. One cannot know for certain until pon farr onsets that the attraction is enough. If the Vulcan does not accept the other as their mate, they will attempt to kill them.”
Her eyes were a degree wider than her baseline. “How titillating. And what is it that makes one most desirable to a Vulcan on the brink of pon farr?”
He gazed steadfastly back. “A complementing mind.”
“Is that all? That is rather disappointing.”
Amanda could not understand, not without knowing the sensitive information of katras and mind melds. There was said to be a time when Vulcans would create permanent mind melds – or bonds as they were known – with their bondmates to ensure longevity. But these were archaic notions that were now obsolete. The art of bonding was a lost one, and nowadays, the thought of sharing a mindscape was incredibly obscene. To lose one's will to another - to lose that control? It was disturbing and primitive.
But Sarek, of course, surely did not plan on divulging such secrets.
“That is the best case. However, it is more common to simply find a random Vulcan male or female. It is considered a necessary act to endure, and there is no requirement for marriage or attachment after it passes. I should also clarify how marriages are arranged. It is seen as logical to choose two potential mates, who must fight to the death. Only the survivor is seen as a strong and ideal husband.”
“Yes, yes,” waved Amanda. “This is common knowledge about Vulcans.”
“Terrans simply do not know that this often occurs during pon farr. If the female wishes to consider the inflicted male for marriage, then she will choose a second male to challenge him.”
“I quite like that,” Amanda chuckled. “That is rather cold, isn’t it?”
“I would not know if it is.”
“Of course not, darling. So you do not release this – ” Amanda gave a lazy, vague gesture of her hand. “ – yamareen any time prior? I would like to be prepared in the event you are about to kill everyone in your vicinity.”
He detected a humorous tone, but Sarek shifted, his eyes focusing on the book between them. “It may be released during times of stress or strong emotion, such as when one’s life may be threatened. It acts similarly to adrenaline for Terrans. But in those cases, it is quite easy for us to reattain control of our system to dispel and stop its production. The only times we do not have mastership over our own body to do such a thing is during pon farr.”
“But you do not know if it is stress or lust producing yamareen?”
“Yes,” he answered, albeit reluctantly. “But it is rarely the latter. We do not share the Terran proclivity for pursuit and expression of pleasure.”
“Well, as a Terran, I find that quite difficult to believe,” she chuckled. She raised her legs to tuck her ankles beside her, causing her to lean even closer to him. “But I suppose I’ll take extra care in not offending your delicate sensibilities. I don’t suppose you have any questions for me?”
It was rare that he ever found himself in such a conversation with a Terran, especially one open to debate. Not to mention that when it came to Amanda, Sarek did not believe he could ever run out of queries.
“Specify the characteristics Terrans desire in a mate.”
She smiled widely. “Now that, darling, is an excellent question.” She straightened out her skirt. “There are the superficial things of course – looks and personality. Attraction is important in long-lasting marriages, after all. However, it is ultimately your partner’s ability in protecting you that is the most important deciding factor. We live in a harsh universe, and to fight alone is a terrible thing.”
“Is that what led you to your husband?” It was the first time Sarek mentioned him since learning of his existence.
“Yes.” Amanda shrugged. “If I did not have faith in his capability in protecting me, I would not have married him. Only the strong can live a life as comfortable as mine, and I need to be certain that he could defend it. And if he were to fail and something were to occur to me, well, then I know that he would enact revenge on my behalf.”
Now that was surprising. Despite her predisposition for extremes and emotion, Amanda was a careful, almost logical Terran. Sarek turned his body to face her, allowing some more distance between them. “It is unwise to seek retaliation. The payment outweighs the cost.”
“Not at all!” Her eyes were wide, sincere. “How else would you honor them? To let anyone who so much as harms your partner go is disrespectful. How would you know you can trust them if they let such things slide – and thus allowing them to strike back again in the future?”
“It is difficult to find peace with such a mindset.”
“Peace – ” she gestured around them. “ – is this room. It is the quiet moment when you lie in bed next to a warm body just as morning breaks, or the interlude of a good book. Peace is brief and small, but love, darling, is terror. Love is brilliant. Love is power, and there is no purer way to show it than revenge.”
“I do not understand why Terran seek it. Love sounds to be a tyranny.”
“You say it as though it is a bad thing,” Amanda laughed. “There is comfort and safety in control, like a parent to a child. Surely, you know this.”
Sarek considered her, mildly perplexed at her presumption. “Love is a Terran emotion.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You cannot mean exclusively.”
“I do.”
“Oh, you poor things,” she sighed. He tensed when she lightly patted his thigh, her hand warm.
“You continue with the erroneous assumption that we seek attachments. We do not. Ashaya, the closest equivalent we have to love, is suppressed like every other emotion.”
“Even when you marry?”
“Yes. Mates are obtained purely out of duty for the expectation of producing children and aiding with pon farr. As I have said, marriage is not a requirement for pon farr, but it is often easiest to have a chosen mate. An ideal mate is complementary in mind as well as status.”
Abruptly, the music stopped. The final note hung in the air until even it was swallowed up the soft crackling sound of everlasting static.
Sarek turned his head to see that the disk was still spinning like a top, though it no longer produced sound.
“Then what would you say to your mate, if not a riveting declaration of love? There must be something.”
Remembering his purpose of being brought here – of being a teacher to Vulcan culture, Sarek dispelled his reservations and closed his eyes in thought. He pulled at a memory. It was his mother who shared him of this once, from their hidden katra ark within Mount Seleya.
“Yiyet staya nash-veh na du.”
“‘I kill for you,’” she translated.
Sarek nodded. “Biology aside, my people disagrees with unnecessary violence. Specifically, we abhor waste. To kill for someone is both a swear of utmost loyalty and a shameful admittance of attachment – it is thus rarely said now.”
"Who would’ve known that Vulcans can be quite the romantics?”
She then stood and rocked forward on her toes. She lithely stretched her arms up and arched her back, like a feline, as she sighed out her next words, “I confess that there are many similarities between our people regarding ideal mates.”
Sarek considered this. “That is not an unwarranted conclusion,” he conceded from her earlier words. “Attraction and ability in providing protection. This itself is universal across all species and animals”
“Still. Terrans do require a few more things.”
“Such as?”
Amanda lowered her arms and turned to face him. She studied him, briefly, with a faint smile on her lips. He did not notice that she was directly in front of him until she stepped forward, the fabric of her skirt brushing against his knees.
She spoke in a clear, dulcet voice, as if singing a song. She enunciated every syllable clearly, and his eyes briefly fell to her lips.
“Complementary minds.”
He didn’t blink – nor breathe, for that matter – as she lowered to the ground in front of him. He only gazed down at her, never breaking away from her intense stare.
Kneeling, she softly uttered, “Loyalty.”
And then she was rising, her heels now in one hand. Soon, she was leaning over him, bending down until he can feel the warmth of her body. From the corner of his vision, he saw her hand reach for his thigh –
“Sex.”
She grabbed the book beside his leg.
By the time his eyes flickered back to hers, her face was mere inches from his. His countenance did not outwardly crack, and she smiled.
Amanda straightened, as if nothing had occurred. Her heels and books dangled from her hands. "And personally, I prefer clean-shaven men – ” She gave a purposeful look at the ground. “And I hate dirt.”
She turned and walked to her office, calling out, “There's a cleaning kit in the Laboratory – be a good boy and give the rug a thorough wash.”
It was only when the door shut behind her that Sarek looked down. Soot and mud caked the tips of his black leather shoes.
Remnants from his recent trip to the Underground.
Sarek sat on a bench far at the other end of the courtyard. It was the hour at which most Terrans were making their way home. Most walked or took public transportation, but a small group of influential, well-established Terrans were granted the privilege of having their own vehicles.
He watched as many of these Terrans exited the pyramid, walked to the short line of sleek hovercrafts, and drove off only for another to take its place.
It took a surprising amount of time – nearly an hour after he was already excused for the day – for Amanda to walk out. Sarek’s eyes lingered over the golden insignia (a blossom with thick petals unfurling from inside a seashell) on the corner of her hovercraft, as well as the features of the Kelpian slave that opened the door for her.
Sarek stood as they drove off in a sliver of black. It moved much too fast for him to follow, even if he were to run, but Sarek was patient.
He began to walk.
Notes:
Am I overambitious with trying to fit so many plots in one story? Maybe. Do I regret it? Maybe. But am I having fun - yes! I hope y'all are too!
Chapter Text
[Untranslatable*] stones are the physical manifestations of the heart, soul, and mind of our culture. It is how history is kept alive and the future is assured. A way of immortality for the Vulcan people. Without the stones, we are lost and adrift – a being lesser than who we are now. The capabilities of these span more than just symbolic means. As containers of our [Untranslatable] , they also carry an insurmountable yet unknown amount of power. Although our life energy leaves us during death, the energy of our [Untranslatable] remain and are contained in the stones. There are accounts from the Pre-Reformation era that tell of this being harnessed for healing, growth, and even, perhaps, a key for the immortality of bodies. Such manipulation of [Untranslatable] energy is now a myth at most and a lost art at best.
Draft of Contemporary Understanding and Perception of [Untranslatable] Stones (Stardate 2021.23) by P’tar Kai T’Lora. Manuscript was thought to be destroyed by the Vulcan High Council in Stardate 2023.85 before its publication on account of “outdated and blasphemous teachings”. The original draft was later discovered by Section 31 in Stardate 2216.32 in a cavern containing peculiar stones.
*Untranslatable - no English equivalent found for this Vulcan glyph, assuming to be a noun.
STATUS: IN STUDY
When Sarek was eight years of age, he killed his first creature.
It was a jih’kol, a small blue bird. Birds were rarely seen this close to the Vulcan Forge where his family resided, so Sarek was intrigued at finding one off the steps that carved into the Mount Seleya. It was a vicious thing, even with one of its wings stiffly tucked at its side. Although injured, it lunged at Sarek’s fingers with a pointy beak. Beads of green bubbled from his broken skin. The creature clearly still had quite a bit of spirit and life, and it seemed quite likely that should Sarek had left it alone, it would heal in time.
But Sarek had a use for it that was far superior than just squalling and picking at insects.
So he caught it in his hands. It screeched at him and thrashed, but Sarek, unperturbed, steadfastly returned to the household while tightening his grasp on the bird until its small bones shifted and its cries fell silent.
He went straight to his room and placed the animal in a small, clear container. As soon as the bird was set loose, it fluttered unevenly around the box and awkwardly hit its sides with soft thumps like a waning heart. Sarek sat observing for hours while showing no sign of fatigue. Seemingly more comfortable with its surroundings, it whistled softly on occasion. I-Chaya, the family’s guardian, prowled around restlessly, nostrils flaring and tongue lolling. Sarek, more than once, had to verbally reprimand the sehlat to restrain itself.
Was the bird frightened, he mused. Excited? His father had been teaching him to recognize emotions on Terrans. Sarek could not tell for an animal, but he could feel the soft thrumming of its katra in his hands. It was inferior to the complexity of his own mind, even as undeveloped as he was. This week, the Academy taught him that life was not to be wasted – even killing in excess was seen as an expression of overt pleasure – but instead valued for what one could gain from it.
He reminded himself of this, as his slim fingers reached inside the box, wrapped around its soft neck, and applied a soft pressure against its jugular. The bird jerked in his hand as he increased the strength of his hold. Its beak was wide open in a silent cry, and the only sound came from the violent flutters of its wings.
Sarek concentrated intensely, his dark eyes unwavering as he sensed its katra strangely fading away, like a dimming lightbulb.
Just as its jerks lessened in severity, and the light became a pinprick, Sarek abruptly lessened his hold by a few degrees until the bird’s chest swelled with a gasping inhale. To his intrigue, the katra flared blindingly – stubbornly – like a solar flare.
Sated in his quest for knowledge, Sarek made a firm, yet controlled flick of his fingers until its small bones cracked like twigs and a quiet snap echoed his room.
The light died as quickly and easily as blowing out a candle. Sarek heard stories of catching katras, but its soul wisped away like vapor. It was simply too minor of a life to be of importance.
Sarek looked up to see a figure standing at his doorway.
His father silently gazed at the limp carcass on the table, before meeting Sarek’s eyes with a short, miniscule inclination of his head and walking away.
Although nothing was said, the boy knew his father approved.
This memory arisen to the forefront of his mind, as Sarek watched a nameless Terran in a blue uniform – dictating her as part of electrical staff – sprint across the courtyard outside of the Weapons Sector.
She trampled over the immaculately kept garden of crimson poppies, leaving behind a clear trail of demolition. To attempt to evade the Eternal Guards, the city's law enforcers, in broad daylight was utterly and unquestionably futile, yet she continued to run just as the bird had fluttered.
The Guards were surrounding her on either sides, phasers raised in their gloved hands. They truly did not need to chase her – there were snipers from the towers above that watched, bored – but they enjoyed the chase. The blood sport. Sarek was one of many who had stopped to observe. Some cheered loudly or even cajoled the woman with derogatory names.
She slowed to a stop, recognizing her defeat. She raised her hands beside her head.
The closest Guard shot her point-blank. Her blue form crumpled on top of the poppies, and the red blossoms eagerly soaked in her blood.
Many Terrans clapped, as one does when having witnessed an admirable deed, and walked away with an energized step. Many spoke animatedly to their colleagues as they walked away, already retelling the event.
Sarek stayed and watched, however, as the body was enveloped in shimmering rays of light. It ate at the corpse like mites, and when it faded, it was as though the Terran was never there. Already, a gardener was loping his way towards the crumpled poppies.
“You,” barked one of the Eternal Guards, who pointed his phaser at Sarek. “Move it.”
The rest of the day passed longer than usual. Of course, time is ever consistent in its passing, but Sarek nonetheless found himself restless. (He had been struggling of late in maintaining focus during meditations, for reasons he had yet to identify.) The blue bird kept fluttering in between his thoughts.
He had heard of and seen Terrans make a spectacle of death in their society and art. They lavishly display anything from joy to grief to guilt – all emotions he was not entirely certain he had truly felt himself. (It was difficult, after all, to put a name on an emotion when your whole life is taught to ignore it.) Surely, what he was experiencing was none of those things. He felt neither excitement nor regret for the death of the bird or the girl. He did not even have any personal attachment to either. This was simply… contemplation.
Sarek methodically placed a single sheet of wax paper in between the pages of a five-century-old book and closed it before directing his attention on the woman across the room.
Amanda had received an unmarked metal container of books today, and she had jumped into it with an intense narrow-mindedness that was both admirable and concerning. Sarek was – curious (not an emotion, but rather a drive) to know of their contents. These books, some of which had Vulcan glyphs on their covers, were anticipated and of interest to other unknown parties. There was a heightened amount of activity in the days preceding its sudden arrival with an increase in meetings and phone calls.
The strict lack of wireless transmissions within Level Forty-Seven disagreed with Sarek. Transmissions was what every kind of modern communication system relied on. Without signal, there was no accessing digital data, messages, or even time. The Terran approach to this dilemma was rather obvious. Terra still had wires running through their soils and oceans that physically connected buildings and continents. According to T’Priah, such wire-dependent transmissions were outdated even in Terran standards, but they were more secure and, in the Red Room’s case, more accessible. The ‘telephone', as Rebecca had once called it, was a communications device with a cord. It’s red, glossy surface shone from where it sat on one of the shelves of books, its bright color startling.
Amanda, who sat on the rug surrounded by neatly ordered piles of her books, straightened when his timber voice cut across the mutual silence. “What is the Terran view of death?”
Amanda’s downturned eyes flickered up to him in – what was it? Disbelief? Or amusement? He noted the corners of her lips lifted into a faint smile. “Darling, that is much too big of a question for such a short amount of time.”
"There are forty-seven minutes left in the workday, which is more than sufficient for this simple query. Do you require a rewording?”
“Don’t be so waspish.” Amanda stood and brushed down her dress. She then sat across from him at the table, sighing as she gently rotated her neck to seek relief. “Though a break does sound lovely, but a conversation with you is anything but.”
He didn’t respond – there was nothing to say when she clearly knew the question. He watched, and waited, as she laced her hands on top of the wooden table and regarded him.
“It's actually a poor question. Terrans are not so – homogenous as your people are. There are different beliefs regarding death that varies in culture and in era. We used to find solace in old religions and concepts of heaven and hell, but these beliefs have been outdated since the Eugenics War and the establishment of our modern Empire. The only god we have now is our shining Emperor, but even he is also a man. Religion is but a pretty package, promising a happy afterlife so long as you obey something archaic as morals.”
Sarek arched his eyebrow. “Morality is the right and wrong as defined by a society. Morals are persistent and it is incorrect to say they do not exist."
"Morals are what self-serving and sanctimonious people preach for to hate themselves less. What you are speaking of are standards - limitations grounded on expectations. We only follow them because we do not want to be seen as alien or other.” She shook her head, straightening her watch. “In actuality, politeness, etiquette, civility – when used correctly, they can be just as sharp as a knife.”
“Those are Terran concepts.”
“Precisely,” she said, politely. “It must be so confusing for you, darling, but there is much to gain from courtesy when used properly.”
Was this conversation an act of courtesy? He did not see what was so enjoyable about it.
Before Sarek could ask, Amanda cut across. “Now, the Empire would boast that death is an opportunity for glory. We are not so barbaric or idiotic as the Klingons to welcome it, but there is nothing as romantic and selling as the loyalty of a martyr. Starfleet, for example, offers various levels of honor and financial compensation to families if their own dies in combat.”
“Is profiting off death not more barbaric?”
“It’s simply business. Would you not welcome death more if you knew your loved ones would gain from it?”
“Death is a personal endeavor. It should not be displayed or made an exhibition of.”
Amanda tossed her hair and laughed with white teeth flashing, all in fluid, well-practiced motion. “Oh, not the Vulcan giving the Terran a lesson on compassion. We all- adore a good, proper send-off with some sort of funeral. No one wants to die unremembered.”
"And what is your own stance?”
“I do agree it’s foolish to glorify it for what it is – an obstacle. It’s a threat to my family and myself, and I surely will not allow it touch any of us. But I am not like your kind – who see death as merely another stage of life no different from infancy, childhood, adolescence, and so on. I refuse to be so complacent and accepting of it, not unlike an insect waiting to be stepped on.” Amanda had spoken so factually, with a steady, sharp gaze that was so unapologetic in its irrationality. He knew that no matter what he says, she would not – could not – understand. Vulcans can die yet still live through katras, whether anchored into a stone or spreading across the stars. They knew for a fact that death did not equate an end, but the Terrans had no such equivalent comprehension.
“Your assessment of my people is far too simplified. We do not desire death, but nor do we attempt to deny the inevitable.”
“Sounds utterly passive.”
“It requires more strength to restrain oneself than to act.”
“Why restrain in the first place?” she pushed, leaning forward by a few inches. “Why not act – if not too simply feel good?”
“One cannot resist in the case of death. Any pleasure – ”
“Where on Terra did you pluck pleasure from? Oh, I’m talking about comfort, darling, in knowing that your family is alive and well.”
“Comfort, pleasure – all self-gratifying emotions that in turn lead to the passivity you seemingly despise.”
“What other purpose is there to live your life if not for self-gratification?”
“For the Empire, of course.”
She laughed – a true one that rang in the air and up his spine before dying down into a chuckle. “You are sharp, aren’t you? It’s fascinating. All of your other people seem either submissive or vacant, but you learn very quickly.”
Sarek didn’t answer. It was a harmless enough question imbued with humor but woven in were hints of Terran superiority. Furthermore, her unwavering eyes suggested that she was genuinely interested in detecting any sign of defiance.
His face was smooth and his eyes like flat stones when he responded, “I am a valet to the Empire. It is not my intention to suggest otherwise.”
She studied him before offering a gentle smile, one as controlled as his neutrality. “Very wise. Though, I promise I won’t report you for treason in speaking your mind – not when that is your role here.”
It seemed that his deflection did not work entirely.
He needed to be more considerate of his words and tone. The way he spoke to his Vulcan colleagues on his homeworld – with double meanings and hidden connotations – was so starkly different from the direct, robotic persona the Terrans believed his people had.
Amanda seemed to be implying kindness and acceptance, but she was hungry like every other Terran. While most sought money, sex, or luxury to fulfill their desire for power, she was driven by something quite unique – knowledge. Power. She liked knowing things about people. He could see it in her very occupation, as well as her every question. She often speaks in a welcoming, warm tone that hides the vicious precision of her targeted questions.
This made Amanda remarkably Vulcan-like, despite being simultaneously one of the most un-Vulcan being he’s ever met.
Her brown eyes narrowed slightly. “Now, what instigated this conversation? I did not think you were even capable of this much brooding.”
Sarek explained with appropriate detail of the death he had witnessed out in the courtyard. Nothing so dramatic as the other bystanders spoke of, but she listened attentively with steady eyes.
“How horrid,” Amanda said, though with a lack of obvious feeling. It seemed more obligatory than sincere. “Though a girl’s death is hardly a gunshot heard around the world, especially one who is doubtlessly a traitor."
"You feel no reproach for her death?"
"All I know is that better her than me - than my family." She frowned, and he heard a hint of disapproval in her tone. "Darling, you should think the same for yourself if you want to survive here. It’s best to put such sordid memories behind you."
“You misunderstand. Her death is inconsequential.”
Amanda arched an eyebrow, as he smoothly continued. “I am simply noting that for such a progressive race – ” He was careful to not infuse a hint of sarcasm into his words. “ – there are still rampant and mindless killings.”
“Rampant,” she echoed with a breathless laugh. “What do you think we do? Murder each other on the daily?”
“I have witnessed periodic executions on my planet and – ”
Amanda interrupted. “Let me first ask you this. Since you’ve arrived to Terra – when was it? - over a month ago, have you seen other rampant and mindless killings out on the streets beside what you saw today?”
Sarek’s answer was short, as he levelly gazed back at her. “No.”
“No. And it’s because your experience with Terrans is limited to only those on your planet. Those Terrans are either part of Starfleet or once were. They do things differently than us here in the Eternal City, and for all of your clear reservations against us, we are only civilians.” Amanda brushed away a speck of dust on the table’s surface. “There’s law and order here. Families. We don’t simply just go about killing people on the daily, at least those who do not deserve it.”
“That is surely a minimization. The escapades and lengths the Patricians have enacted for status and power – ”
Amanda made an unfamiliar gesture – she sucked in air through her lips and her eyes widened. Her lips were tilted up, as she raised a hand over her heart.
“Sarek.” It wasn’t until then that he realized how acclimated he was at being referred to with an endearment rather than a name. A disconcerting, unfamiliar warmth flared in his chest, which he quickly disregarded as he did whenever it arose. “I'm surprised - I didn’t know you are such a gossip. Why, only a few weeks ago you didn’t even know what a Patrician was, and now you seem to know all the gory details. Very curious on who you’ve been speaking with, since I’m quite certain it’s not anyone here.”
“I am simply a careful listener.”
She hummed. "I suppose our reputation precedes us. We do have so much more to lose, you see, compared to the commoners – ”
“And xenoforms.”
“ – and xenoforms,” she agreed without a hint of remorse. “That kind of… responsibility does cause us to make drastic – if not effective – decisions. Regardless, such personal matters occur between us Patricians. We don’t go gunning down and torturing commoners left and right. Emperor Sato, as well as every emperor before him, recognizes that every lifeform – Terran or xeno – has a role to play. Things such as genocide simply is not feasible.”
Sarek arched an eyebrow. “Your history is riddled with massacres and genocides.”
“As is yours. Vulcan history is surprisingly just as bloody, if not more. Eradicating whole cities and villages in the setting of plagues and famines. Killing children and infants to ensure the rival clan would die out. Attempts to exterminate the Romulans and Andorians - these were especially admirable, although they unfortunately failed. Vulcans clearly are the ‘all but nothing’ kind of people. I assure you that if the Empire had known about your extreme tendencies from the beginning, we would not have even entertained the thought of vassals.”
A sudden shrill ring peeled across the library, and they both paused. A beat of silence passed before the phone unleashed another grating ring. He realized he was leaning forward, and he righted himself back.
Amanda stood and parted him a gentle smile as suffocating as perfume. “I do suggest that you take care on the kind of company you keep. It would be such a shame if cruel misinformation influenced your perception of my people.”
Sarek blatantly tracked her movements across, as she lifted the phone from the base and put it up to her ear. Her fingers absentmindedly fondled with the phone’s curled cord. Her voice was low as she answered, “Amanda Grayson speaking.”
He could barely make out a faint, tinny voice coming from the device in her hand. (The technology was so simplistic, but undoubtedly clever -)
Amanda stilled. The cord was wrung around her finger like a noose. Her voice was dropped in volume, inaudible to a Terran and just borderline for a Vulcan. She enunciated every word, her tone uncharacteristically dangerous. "How is that possible?"
A pause.
“You are telling me this now?”
Sarek watched her taut back with blatant interest.
"No," she said. "I've been keeping an eye out but there is nothing. We received a shipment, but such things take time."
Amanda listened, before her head tilted back up towards the ceiling. She exhaled sharply. "Killing them all will not do a single thing but send back our efficiency and quota, and you know it. You need to put eyes on them, but first, you need to tell the admiral."
The voice raised in pitch.
"Oh, quiet yourself. I don't give a damn - if we're being stolen from, then he would want to know."
Amanda abruptly turned and leaned back against the shelves, her hand gripping the phone. Fascinating – gone were her easy smile and gentle eyes and replaced instead with a startingly harsh gaze that he recognized on all the other Terrans he had seen on his home world.
"Find them.” Amanda said, her voice cool. “And don't make me get involved."
She slammed the phone down into the receiver.
Even after T'Priah left, Sarek remained. Remarkably, there was some peace to be found in the Underground. Ignoring all of its unsavory dealings, its vitality was undeniable. The cacophonous roaring of the crowd merged to be just as deafening as silence. Like the crowd, the noise blurred together into numbing homogeneity.
It allowed him to think. T’Priah had taken what he learned – that Graysons Industries and Amanda knew that an item was missing, and, soon, so would the patriarch Admiral Marcus Grayson himself – with scarcely so much as an explanation. One in which that he was long overdue. Instead, she excused herself for the night and strode off without a glance back.
His irritation was a steady smolder – one that Sarek was admittedly failing in extinguishing. Day by day, he is expected to be a pawn to the shamelessly privileged Amanda Grayson. Serving was something that he excelled at on Vulcan for his father and T’Pau, but that was different. There he was a high-level attaché in charge of his own team, and here he is diminished to Amanda Grayson’s xenoform. Now, it seemed that he was but another pawn for T’Priah as well – who he increasingly has become suspicious regarding the legitimacy of her claims and allegiance to T’Pau.
The Vulcan way was to leave no prints in the sand – to not disrupt the Empire and thus their status to the Terrans. His people listened and responded through carefully planned diplomacy – not steal from one of the greatest powers in the Empire like reckless, impassioned rebels.
Suddenly, Sarek was broken out of his meditative-like state. He could not say precisely what it was that caught his attention, but suddenly, his eyes were searching.
The figure was slipping through the throng of bodies like a sliver of a fish in a stream. They, like many others, donned an attire of all black, and their head was covered by a hood. Slim and short and slight, they walked with a deviating kind of surety and quickness that made them stand out from the bumbling crowd of commoners and xenoforms.
Without another thought, he was dashing down the steps and into the crowd. He maintained at least ten feet worth of people in between them and used a particularly tall Andorian as a cover. Occasionally, he would lose their head in the crowd, but it would not take long to find them. They moved quickly, however, their smaller size allowing them to squeeze through others.
Sarek did not share the same ability – an Andorian gave him an indignant snort when he tried to squeeze by.
Ignoring him, Sarek scanned around to find them – he lost them again – but to no avail.
Irritation flared abruptly, and he found he was irritated about many things – the noise, the people, the smell, the heat of the bodies. The flames licked at his thoughts, even when he abruptly spotted them at a stall.
It was a pharmacy, he noticed. It sold a range of items, from Terran band aids to Nogatch hemlock poison. The more costly items included hypospray and tissue regenerators – all blocked off by an agonizer field. He stepped to the side into the stall beside - it appeared to be some atrocious clothing store, and Sarek simply watched through the racks.
They strolled through with an ease – perhaps a familiarity, Sarek mused – in between the pharmacy’s messily set up shelves. The seller – an elder Denobulan – was at their side, head bowed in submission but also eagerly yapping on about each product. They plucked items off the shelves with little hesitation. There was almost a mindlessness to their choice, as they didn’t seem to pause for long in making a decision. Sarek wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but he strained to see the items in their hand - their face. They wore gloves, he noted, a further confirmation of their identity.
Finally, they turned towards his direction. Their head was bent down to study a vial of clear liquid, but it was enough – her dark, downturned eyes and the slant of her nose. It was Amanda, he was certain.
She was so easy to spot and recognize – so reckless of her to come to the Underground surrounded by offworlders and lower class Terrans who would sniff her out in an instance. She reeked of wealth, despite her dark, unmarked clothing. It was evident in the clean, fine wool she wore, the uncreased scarf covering her mouth and nose, and the uncuffed leather of her boots. Unlike most of the richer Terrans, she had no obvious guards around her.
Something slipped into his thoughts like oil, thick and warm and promising. Would her neck feel as brittle as a jhi’kol bird? Sarek could find out right now if he –
A shrill, high-pitched voice went off beside him.
Sarek quickly stepped behind a coat rack just as Amanda began to turn.
“No – buy, no sell. Out – ”
Sarek swiftly reached out and tightly pressed the palm of his hand flat against the Tellerite’s neck. It immediately silenced upon its airway being blocked.
Sarek gave the short, angry Tellerite a single sharp stare. Then without a word, Sarek pushed it away and turned.
Amanda was handing something to the Denobulan – credits. The Denobulan bobbed his head in gratitude, his smile stretched wide across his face as Amanda turned away and entered the crowd once more.
She was heading towards the northern wall – where the main entrance to the Embarcadero Station was located. It was a long and magnificent staircase that spanned across the entire station and provided direct access to the streets of the Eternal City. It was obviously less populated than the other exits with only a few dozen who laid sprawled on its steps or sat on the rails. A few of the men jeered at Amanda, who simply ignored them. It led to the Inner Ring where only the rich and wealthy lived, and any xenoform or low class Terran would easily be spotted and detained.
Sarek could not easily follow Amanda on the stairs – she could simply turn around and look down to see him trailing after her. So, he waited anticipatively at the foot of the steps, partially hidden behind a column, until she reached the top. At that point, Sarek began sprinting up the steps, taking three at a time. Even in the lighter gravity, his muscles began to burn and protest. The same men that heckled Amanda hooted and whistled at him. A drunkard reached for him, but Sarek ducked under his arm.
When he reached the top, he saw the stairway abruptly opened into a ticket station. Broken ticket machines laid toppled on the ground with broken glass swept around them. A smaller stairway leading up into the street was at the far end, where he saw Amanda making her way.
There were only half a dozen others here as well, and Sarek watched intensely as one reached for her.
Sarek did not move, even as the drunk Terran roughly grabbed her arm with a raucous laugh. Sarek watched with interest, as suddenly the man froze.
Sarek couldn’t see clearly from so far away, but Amanda had stepped up into his hold, and the fronts of their bodies were covered. Amanda was speaking very closely to the man’s face, however, a sweet smile on her lips.
The man slowly stepped back, hands raised beside his head, revealing a phaser in Amanda’s hand. Its rim glowed red, showing it was set to the highest setting, and it was pointed directly at the man’s groin.
It was a remarkably effective tactic, as all the men stumbled away.
Amanda briskly turned and darted up a narrow set of stairs.
He soon followed, and he was greeted with the stars above his head. The chilly ocean air nipped at his cheeks, and the wind tugged at his clothing. The stale stench of sweat and urine was pushed aside and replaced by the cool, cleansing air. Sarek didn’t take the time to bask in the cleansing atmosphere – which felt remarkably like that of Vulcan’s during the night – but instead watched as Amanda swiftly opened the door to a black, unlabeled vehicle.
Then, Amanda paused. She casted her eyes towards his direction, eyes searching. Logic assured that her weaker eyesight would not be able to resolve his own dark form from the shadows of the stairway.
Nonetheless, Sarek remained very still until she finally entered her vehicle, and even as he watched her drive away.
Notes:
Three guesses for who the Denobulan is? Next chapter's when everything starts to pick up/tie together! Hope everyone will have an incredibly safe and spooky weekend <3
Chapter Text
...The biological, cyclical processes of "Blood Fevers" are induced by elevated levels of yamareen, a hormone with an unparalleled structural stability that allows it to withstand high temperatures over [200 degrees in Fahrenheit] ... Of note, in rarer cases, yamareen is also produced beyond the Vulcan heat cycle during acute episodes of high stress and emotion, particularly in the setting of a lack of consistent meditations ... Symptoms are only abated by sexual intercourse and/or extreme aggressive behavior. Symptoms include febrile temperatures, elevated heart rate, elevated breathing rate, hot flashes, pupil dilation, aggression, sexual urges, hypertension ...
The Demands of Pon Farr (Stardate 2036.34) by R'tok M'lagh Vokir
STATUS: IN STUDY
“How do Vulcans tell time?”
The book in Sarek's hands was ancient and made of the most delicate and thin paper he had ever held. It was as soft as a bed sheet, and he was certain that if he were to spill a single drop of water on its surface, it would disintegrate like sugar. His fingers were unpleasantly numb in the dreadful cold of the Dark Room, but they moved nimbly to thread the needle and rebind the pages. Bent over the preservation table, Sarek did not look in her direction.
A languid sigh met his ears. “Darling, I do not have all day.”
It was a strange thing to say, considering Amanda had watched him for the past nine minutes and seventeen seconds without saying a word. She had walked in, door sliding shut behind her. Neither of them had greeted another – such niceties are a waste of time – and so the only sounds to pierce the suffocating silence were that of the soft rustlings of paper.
But upon Amanda’s vocal interruption, Sarek swallowed his brief flare of irritation and set the injured book down before straightening.
“The query you pose can have multiple interpretations and is thus inadequate for a response.”
He had only seen Amanda in passing these past two weeks. He kept track of her coming and goings, of course, and she stayed most of her time in her office. Sometimes, Sarek would be standing in a precise location (about nine feet left of the office) that would allow him to see within as she either entered or exited. In those few seconds before the door would shut behind her, he saw nothing remarkable.
The only event he could associate with her behavior was the last shipment of books. Since then, she had remained in relative solitude, though often sporadically calling for him to answer her wide-ranging questions such as this. Even Rebecca seemed put off by Amanda's evident distraction.
Half of Amanda's face was cast in shadows, while the rest was illuminated with red. The slanted lighting made her small smile appear exaggerated – demented. She uttered her words with a painstaking slowness. “How did your people keep track of time? Say, if I wanted to know the day of your birth, how would you have answered that?”
It was an innocent question, as they all had been. Last time, she had asked him about their system of length measurements.
“Like the Terran way, we use our revolution about our star, Alam’ak, to mark the year. As for month and date, our Alam’ak is orbited by four planets and two other stars. The two stars, Behr’ak and Czar’ak, share the same orbit, and Vulcan shares an orbit with the planet known as T’Khasi. We consider the position of Behr’ak, Czar’al, and T’Khasi in vocalizing dates.”
Amanda walked up to his side and revealed a scroll she held behind her back. Unraveling it in front of him, she stood so close that he was acutely aware of her heat in the cold room. She was not smiling any longer. “Explain it.”
It was a fine, intricate painting. Well-maintained and could not have been too old – he estimated perhaps within the past century before the Terran Occupation. Vivid shades of violet, red, and green, all of which were commonly produced from natural Vulcan vegetation, covered the scroll. Thin lines of glinting silver were wounded across to form ellipses, thus depicting Vulcan’s whole star system. The painting was undoubtedly artisanal, and he could see a glyph in the corner representing a clan – likely an heirloom scavenged from the Occupation.
He rested a finger on the silver ring marking Vulcan and T’Khasi’s orbit. “From Vulcan’s surface, we are able to see Behr’ak, Czar’al, and T’Khasi in our sky. We record the degrees at which each planet is to the Alam’ak.”
“And the angle ranges are? In degrees or radians or – ”
“In Terran terms, 1440 degrees. Your people favor 360 degrees, but that is of a much lesser range of accuracy and less symmetric than ours.”
“Really,” she said.
“Yes. Especially in the case of telling time on Vulcan. A Vulcan year is 272 days precisely, with each day 36 hours. Thus, the angle changes by ten degrees every day.”
“How does one verbally express a date then? Just in degrees?”
“There are three terms given in this order: first, the degrees of Vulcan in its orbit. For example, 720 degrees if we are halfway around. This tells us where in the year we are. Second, the degrees of our second star, Nevesa. And for the third term, the degrees of T’Khasi. Three degrees. Three terms. One date. It is a much more precise measurement than the Terran system.”
While he was speaking her eyes had fallen to fixate at some point on the table’s surface. Sarek could not discern anything particularly remarkable about the glass and based on that and the slight furrow of her eyebrows, Amanda must have been caught in the stream of her thoughts.
“Three degrees,” she murmured thoughtfully.
Her suddenly dark eyes flickered to his, and he caught a sharp gleam in them – like a le-matya who caught a scent. Her pink bowed lips curved upward just barely. “Thank you, darling.”
She hardly glanced at him, as she plucked the scroll away and glided out the door. Left alone, Sarek carefully tucked away his curiosity. His fragile book in hands, he picked off where he left and continued to sew.
Sarek did not have to wait long for answers. An hour before their usual time of departure, Amanda reappeared just as before – this time, she was clad in her coat. His eyes fell on the small metal briefcase in her hand. He had first noticed it in her office, but he had yet to see it be of any use.
“I have outside matters to attend to. You may pick up tomorrow.”
Sarek delicately lowered the book. He had completed the first one and was now on the second. “What matters?”
Amanda gaze did not waver, as she straightened the watch on her wrist. She carried a hard, critical look, as if debating whether he was worth responding to. He was getting acquainted to this other side of her - the one that shows itself in between the laughs and teasings. It was fascinating, yet disorienting, to witness Terran mercuriality.
Her tone was ambivalent, as if commenting on the weather. “I have just reported the location of a possible insurgent hideout. Per protocol, I am to accompany officials in case they require assistance.”
A pause.
Sarek concluded, “The degrees – ”
“Three degrees. Three coordinates. For a city with a shape of a circle.” Amanda gave a pointed stare at his workspace, a hint of impatience escaping through her tone. “I cannot leave you here unaccompanied, so if you may.”
He stood. “I request to accompany you.”
“Darling, this isn’t a field trip. Interns don’t – ”
“I am not an intern.”
“You are an unessential, and I do not have need of one on the field.”
He began to methodically fold a protective layer of wax paper about the books. As he placed them in their proper shelves, he stated, “If these insurgents are Vulcan, it would be beneficial to have a Vulcan assisting you. I assume that there will be other Vulcan motifs present that you yourself cannot understand.”
“Do you mean to say you are invaluable?”
“Yes.”
Amanda wordlessly arched an eyebrow, so he backtracked. Stopping in front of her, he said, “Perhaps useful is the appropriate term. You could rely on your own knowledge, which indeed has proved to be sufficient in a number of instances. Or you could take me instead and save time and efficiency should you stumble across an aspect you are unfamiliar with.”
“I could simply just bring them back to you in such cases.”
They stared at each other. His index finger twitched. Truthfully, there was little, if any, logic or necessity for her to bring him. He knew it, and she certainly did as well.
Before he could further argue his case, she cut across. Snapping her fingers, she gestured impatiently across the door. “Alright. Come along, now.”
Not one to waste words, Sarek silently followed Amanda out into the library. She was the last to leave, using her palm print and eye scan to initiate lock down. Sarek watched as the lights shut off in waves. In the end, it was all dark except for a gleaming square light from the window across. From where he stood by the doorway, it looked like a red eye staring at him from the center of darkness.
As they entered the security hall, lasers scanned across their forms. Amanda did not slow as she posited, “You understand that that there’s a chance some of your kind will be there? And if found they will be punished accordingly?”
“If you suspect my loyalties to the Empire is compromised, I deny it. If these are Vulcans and they are to be punished, it will not weigh on my conscious.”
They entered the white halls of Level Forty-Seven, and Amanda paused to face him. “You believe these insurgents deserve to be punished as the law demands?”
What the law demanded was irrevocably clear: treason was to be punished by death. The degree of treason dictated the degree of pain that would be bestowed upon the traitor.
“Yes. If not for treason, then for being caught.”
Amanda laughed, an unkind thing.
A familiar vehicle with waited for them at the front of the Weapons Sector building. He knew that during her outings, Amanda favored this craft with its golden insignia of flower and seashell, as well as the same Kelpian who assisted her every time. The creature bowed deeply upon their approach, as the door unfurled like fluid metal, rolling out to form a ramp. The passenger compartment was separated from the driver’s, and it had two rows of leather seats that faced each other. Sarek slid to the seat at the end, and Amanda nimbly sat on the opposite row at the far corner. They were as far as one could be in this small luxury craft, yet her floral fragrance filled the small space like a stifling cloud. The vehicle began to roll forward.
Sarek grazed the leather of the seats with his index finger. The material was cold like a carcass, and he could feel every single raised bump beneath his sensitive skin. He could not fathom why an advanced civilization would still find high value in the skin of animals. Then again, these were the people who still upheld slavery.
The road was smooth for the most part, but the ground vehicle could not compare to the weightlessness of air travel. They moved with every acceleration as they approached intersections. The streets were fairly empty as always – only high clearance officials had a "luxurious" ground vehicle, but the transportation was still riddled with stops and lurches.
Eventually, Sarek asked, “What is the estimated time of arrival?”
Amanda was gazing out her window. Shadows and light flickered across her face like from that of a hologram. “It is well beyond the walls. Perhaps an hour.”
“I do not understand why this ground mode of transportation is preferred. This craft has hovering capabilities, which would save time as well as make the trip more comfortable.”
“Only emergency vehicles and law enforcement are allowed to travel in the air space within city walls. A person of my status is only able to when outside city walls. As soon as we pass through the gates, our dear driver will switch to flight mode, so don’t fret, darling – just a little bit longer.”
She was goading him, and he did not intend to fall for the bait. She did not seem to expect him to anyways, already looking out of the window once more.
Sarek attempted to mimic her. He looked out on the sterile streets. It was now the cusp of winter in this part of Terra, and the sun had already lowered 36 minutes ago, thus enshrouding the streets with a blanket of darkness. Gilded, wrought-iron lamps appeared every ten feet. Very few people were out at this time. It was aberrantly still for a city that held a million people.
Soon, they reached the gates. Red lasers streaked across their vehicle to pick up any suspicious signatures. A guard appeared at Amanda’s window.
She didn’t spare a single glance nor word to the guard as she held up her black badge. Without even asking Sarek for his own identification, the guard immediately gave a signal, and the gilded golden gates swung outward. The protective shields rippled red before disappearing entirely, allowing them to move forward.
The smooth paved roads gave way to dusty dirt roads, and it was not long until a soft hum filled the vehicle. Sarek felt a familiar drop in his stomach, as the craft began to hover and tuck its ground wheels under its belly. Soon they were in the air, streaking across the barren land of the Outer Rim.
Well, mostly barren. In the distance, Sarek could faintly make out the mishappen silhouette of squat houses and buildings – all of which were in some state of disrepair or ruin. Flecks of warm, orange light were sporadically placed among them, like stars in the sky. The Terran Empire’s own people living in poverish, toxic conditions.
Eventually, the dirty wasteland gradually began to give way, as nature slowly reclaimed its territory. Buds of green became shrubs, and tall grass transitioned to young trees. It was a rare, merciful night in which the thick layer of noxious clouds parted, revealing slivers of a starlit sky. It was 13 evenings ago that Sarek had last witness clear skies. Just as they were then, his eyes were drawn to the speck of light of his home star.
The only artificial light he could see came from the Eternal City. There was a dense forest beneath them now, and there was only black for miles around.
“Do others live beyond the Outer Rim?”
“Citizens are confined to live within city zones. Those who live outside the walls in the Outer Rims have tracers injected within them upon birth. If they stray beyond twenty miles of the city, the officials are alerted, and they are apprehended.” Her head lulled back lazily against the headrest, her eyes turning towards him. “For the citizens’ safety, of course. We cannot have them getting lost.”
“Where is the nearest city?”
Half of her face was cast in shadows, the other half illuminated by the sliver of the moon hanging in the sky. He waited, but it was clear she deemed it not worth her time to answer.
Sarek quietly inhaled before commenting, “I am admittedly surprised how similar Terra and Vulcan citizens are handled. The Empire seems just as, if not more, attentive in maintaining safety and control on Terra.”
She straightened her watch, an indication of her irritation, he had learned. She seemed to have forgotten her usual set of satin black gloves.
“I’m not surprised. You tell a Vulcan to sit, and then they won’t move for centuries.”
“That is surely an exaggeration.”
“Hardly.” Amanda checked her watch again. “I bet that on Vulcan, you – and every one of your people – wake up ready to serve,” she said, with a faint scoff. “You go to work. Then you go to your home, eat, and sit. Then the day starts all – over – again. That is stagnancy, and thus you’re no different than a statue.”
She was uncharacteristically agitated, for reasons he had not yet ascertained. Sarek raised an eyebrow. “Is that not what you do yourself?”
“No, darling. Because I actually enjoy my work. I take great pride and fulfillment from it. It excites me. And when I go home, I do not live like a robot. I find other sources of pleasure, and frankly it seems that the most your people get off in is kissing the Empire’s shoes.”
“It seems that Terrans are simply more susceptible in designating grandiose meaning into their actions when there are none.”
“To live in grandeur is at least living. There is more to life that go beyond the realms of logic.”
“Grandeur and delusion are, in my judgement, one and the same.”
“You speak a dead man’s words, and that makes you archaic as he.”
“If you know about the origins of our philosophy, then surely you know as well that Vulcans once lived like you and your people – consumed with the fleeting things such as pleasure and violence.”
Her smile was unexpected. “Oh, yes. Many clans during that time liked to write down their conquests in explicit detail. Other books were written about all manner of things, including that lovely one you read dedicated to the art of sexual pleasure. I confess that even I blushed reading them. It was surprising to know that under – ” she pointed vaguely at him “- all of that logic is something more primal than my people are.”
Sarek measuredly curled his right hand into a fist, already feeling a familiar, uncomfortable tingle from his small finger to his elbow. “You speak of the Dark Ages. Pre-Reformation times. We were no different to mindless animals focused on possession and primal gratification. We nearly killed ourselves and were on track to annihilate our own species. With logic, we found a better way.”
She laughed lightly, like a bell. “It’s adorable how you think yourselves better than we are – ”
“I did not intend to imply such a thing. You misconstrue my words – ”
“Oh, hush,” she said, flicking her wrist dismissively. "You think you so different from my people – from me. In actuality, we’re the same. That same violence and desire and ambition in me is in you. You see, my people almost destroyed ourselves during the Third World War. We nearly wiped out the whole planet. You know what we did to stop it? We embraced what we were. We understood that we needed someone strong to unite us. An emperor is necessary for us to live the lavish life we desire. We didn’t blame our emotions nor cower from them.”
“Vulcans do not cower. We control our emotions. That requires diligence and strength that a Terran could not understand.”
“You yourself have told me that you still kill one another for mates. That you still feel. You simply choose not to address or recognize it. You bury it so far down beneath you until it serves you a purpose.”
“If we did not follow Surak’s ways, then we would not be of service to the Empire. Indeed, we would be more of a threat than the Klingons.”
Amanda gave a low, drawling chuckle. “Darling, it would be exactly the same as now, except there would be a collar on your neck and a leash in my hand.”
His hand twitched. She spoke carelessly with a singular insolence -
Suddenly, a white glare enveloped the inside of their craft - so bright that Amanda flinched and even Sarek of Vulcan found himself momentarily blinded. It was gone as quick as it came. He straightened and looked out to see low-atmosphere law enforcement crafts hovering just meters away from their own, each with the Terran Empire insignia gleaming from its sides. They emitted streams of high-pressure water towards a bright, orange blaze that was eating away at a decrepit, red-bricked house.
As they lowered to the ground, Sarek was further able to discern they were in a quaint neighborhood of sorts. Abandoned, it seemed, as well as outdated. It did not look as though anyone had lived here for decades if not centuries. All the houses on the street were run down with shattered windows or graffitied walls. The road was littered with trash, but hints of green weeds peeked through cracks. The stillness was only broken by the dozens of Terran officials teeming around the burning house, like insects picking at a corpse.
When they landed on the street, Amanda wordlessly exited the vehicle, and Sarek followed suit.
It was warm. Not from the now-dying blaze, but from the sweeping, blinding lights directed at them from the crafts above. Deafening fans at their underbellies blew harshly at them, causing Amanda’s hair and their clothes to ripple violently. The ash and charcoal whipped through the air like grains of sand. It was overly tumultuous, overly clamorous, overly stimulating. It all grated at his nerves, and he deeply breathed in the cutting, dusty air in an attempt to maintain his composure.
Still, Sarek felt many sharp eyes fall on him, even behind the helmets’ visors all officers wore. Some even approached with an aggressive stance, but each time, Amanda would raise a hand and retort, “He is with me.”
After the third time, she flashed him an irritated look and spoke loudly above the noise. “Follow closely.”
His mouth stiffened, but he walked close by her heels like a shadow.
Soon, a heavily guarded man approached them, but before Amanda could snap at him, he shouted, “I’m Officer Liu, Lady Grayson. I am your guardian for tonight.”
“I don’t recall requesting one, Officer.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been assigned.”
Amanda straightened and inexplicably gazed around with furrowed eyebrows. Sarek followed her search, but he found nothing that would attract her attention. He expected her to dismiss the guard, but she instead relented, “Very well.” When she raised a hand to the sky, her ruby ring glinted. “Tell your men to move away. It is atrociously loud.”
“Yes, Ma'am,” the officer answered, before relaying the order in his communicator. Liu nodded at the house. “The fire squad are performing assessments now. Once finished, you may enter.”
“What is the scale of the damage?”
The bright red door hung limply open, and a tall window above it further revealed the house's innards. Sarek assumed that during the day, natural light would shine in. Now, however, the hovercraft’s occasional spotlight would move across and temporarily light up the interior of the house through the main window. A strange shadow caught Sarek’s eye.
“Most of the house is intact. The fire seemed to be mostly contained to the attic in the third level, and the techs will be able to assess that level's structural integrity further when the fire's out. It is uncertain….”
Sarek left their conversation behind as he took measured steps towards the front of the house. A short, wooden fence surrounded the yard’s perimeter, and he stopped at its entrance.
He could see a pair of feet dangling inside, visible only from the top of the doorway. They were swaying from the hovercrafts’ harsh winds.
Sarek heard Amanda’s distinct footsteps approach and felt her stop beside him. For a moment, they both gazed inside the jaws of the house. The hovercrafts’ light passed by once more, illuminating the shape of a body hanging behind the tall window.
“Ma'am, it is safe to enter.”
Amanda didn’t hesitate, as she gracefully followed Liu up the weed-ridden yard. Sarek lingered only a second before following.
It was quieter, Sarek realized, the closer he got to the house. The hovercrafts above were farther away, and house had its own swelling presence that seemed to consume every sound.
At the doorway, he stopped at Amanda’s shoulder, as they both considered the hanging body above them.
The corpse hung from the bannister on the second floor, swaying lightly with the web-covered crystal chandelier next to it that sent soft fractals across the gruesome scene. The male donned indescripit Terran clothing, but Sarek could see its sharp, angular features even with the rope wound tightly around its neck. It was certainly a Vulcan – one that appeared only several years younger than Sarek himself.
“What a mess,” said Amanda. Not even a Vulcan would consider Amanda’s voice to be emotionally affected. “When did this happen?”
“The coroner – ” Liu nodded up to the second floor of the house “ – believes it was recent. The bodies – ”
“‘Bodies,’” Amanda repeated. “How many?”
“Three Vulcans, Ma'am. They were all still warm when found just minutes ago, the coroner said. We have officers scouting the premises for sensors, as they seemed to have been made aware of our arrival with just minutes to spare.”
Amanda’s eyes immediately cut to Sarek, but it was, for once, unwarranted. He met them, appearing every bit of serene.
Her mouth tightened, but she only briskly headed inside – avoiding from walking directly beneath the body, Sarek noticed. Their sweep of the ground floor was unremarkable - dirty, dusty, and in poor condition, but little, if any sign of habitation.
To get to the second floor, they headed back to the foyer. An elegant staircase composed of dark hardwood began beside the front doorway and curved up to the second floor. Amanda reached for the handrail, but she paused, mouth firming as she took in the dusty surface. She began the ascent without its assistance, and Sarek followed closely behind. At one point, he was eyelevel with the body. Its eyes were open and glassy, like a doll’s.
The workers were already at the bannister to cut the noose. Rather than simply lower the corpse, they allowed the rope to slide away. The limp, heavy body collided against the ground with a loud thump.
Amanda briefly slowed. “Do Vulcans pay respect to the dead?”
“Cremation. Then their ashes are scattered over the desert.”
“Well, it's good for them that cremation is favored by the Empire in handling your kind,” Amanda said, as they reached the second floor which opened up into a loft.
It was dramatically different from the first floor - clean and spacious, for one. Secondly, there was a ladder pulled down that led up into a dark space above, which Sarek could only assume was the burnt attic.
Thirdly, a makeshift altar stood at the far wall. A rare shiver crawled up his spine.
It was made of slabs of stones that must have been dragged from the nearby forests that bordered the neighborhood. Glyphs of the Vulcan script were meticulously carved on the smooth surfaces. Five candles lined the altar. They were still lit, red wax dripping down into puddles. It was a poor imitation of arrangements that Sarek only had seen in clan crypts within the hidden caverns of Mount Seleya.
Slacked in front of the altar were two bodies, still bent over as if in the middle of prayer.
Sarek mistakenly assumed there was a third corpse until it moved. It was really an elder Terran with skin as ashen as the dead. He was crouched over the Vulcans and was so invested in his study that he didn’t glance up until Amanda spoke.
“How did they die, Jacobsen?”
"Ah, Lady Grayson!" The coroner's eyes were a pale, watery grey and carried an inappropriate and cruel excitement. But his wizened voice was breathy and light, almost friendly like a grandfather’s. “It is quite curious. It appears simply as though their body gave out on them. The scans show no external signs of harm, and they appear quite healthy – besides being dead, of course. I will need to do further toxicity testing at the lab.”
Amanda waved her hand impatiently. “Yes, well, I presently need the room.”
A harsh glint appeared in the old man’s eyes, but Jacobsen bowed deeply. “Of course, Lady Grayson.”
It was not long until the bodies were carried out. Amanda then gave a clear look of dismissal to Liu, who nodded. “I will be waiting downstairs, Ma'am.”
Finally, it was just the two of them and the altar. It was as though the bodies were never there.
Only then did Sarek break the silence. “They died by kheile’a.”
Amanda stepped up to the altar, her eyes sweeping over the glyphs. “And that is?”
“It is a form of nerve pinch that is typically done to subdue an opponent and only to repel harm. But when applied with sufficient pressure and duration, it can lead to death. Before hanging himself, the Vulcan must have performed kheile’a on these two as mercy."
Amanda straightened. “Where do you apply this kheile’a?”
Perhaps it was due to his overstimulated mind that Sarek unhesitatingly reached out without thought to hover his hand over her shoulder. Amanda stilled but did not shift away as his fingers just barely brushed against the sensitive skin where her shoulder met her neck -
A singing, sparking sensation shot up his hand, and the world flashed red with a dizzying and painful heat -
“Here,” Sarek said with scarcely a blink, before lowering his arm.
Upon contact, he had sensed hint of apprehension rising in her. Amanda briefly looked behind them out towards the tall window beyond the slowly swaying chandelier.
Sarek did not know what she was searching for, but her attention soon turned back on the alter in front of them. Face closed, Amanda nodded to it before heading towards the bookshelves, away from him. “Translate it for me.”
“We have differences. May we, together,
become greater than the sum of both of us.
May Sekhet’s wild heart be cooled by Ti’Valka’ain’s wisdom.
May their union give way to Kolinahru, the great joiner.”
“Who is Sehket and Ti’Valka’ain?”
“They are ancient deities that my kind had followed during the Pre-Reformation times. Sehket was the most followed. She is the goddess of passion and consumption. She represents the desert, heat, fire, destruction. To appease her fury, it was thought that blood had to be spilt on her altars. Thus, she was often associated with war, and is the antithesis of her counterpart, Ti’Valka’ain, who is the namesake of Vulcan. Ti’Valka’ain is the god of soil, time, healing, and stagnancy.”
“What is this union it speaks of?”
“In the old ways, it was thought that only their union could grant peace over our world – that their temperaments would balance out and the ruthless deserts of Vulcan would wane. But that was always ill-fated.”
“How so?”
“Sehket is not one to be tamed and does not desire to be. If you recall what I have told you, my home system has two binary stars, Behr’ak and Czar’al. It was long thought that these stars were souls of Sehket and Ti’Valka’ain, respectively. The two stars share the same orbit. Constantly chasing one another – yet they are never to touch. Always parted. If the stars were to join, then it is said that Vulcan and other life in the system would perish."
Sarek could only see her back, as she walked along the length of the bookshelf. Her gloved finger trailed against the spine of the books. “Fascinating,” she murmured. And then, louder, “If not melodramatic. The old ways are no longer followed?”
“Most do not. We do not concern ourselves with gods and deities anymore.” His eyes lingered on the altar. “However, factions had existed before the Terran Occupation. It is my belief that these young individuals were in search of faith within the great stronghold of the Empire.”
Amanda plucked a book from the shelf. She flipped it open and began to skim the words. “A pity. Compared to many other worlds, yours is perhaps the best treated. It is not something to be taken for granted.”
Sarek was careful to control his tone. “You sincerely believe we are treated best?”
“Of course. You and your people are free to work and live as you please just as long as you maintain loyalty to the Empire. Very little has truly changed on your world. All of your children are well educated – that is more than even the Terrans who live in the Outer Rims can say – and they grow up to be stoic little Vulcans, just like you.”
“At the expense of our culture and language.” His quiet voice was monotone, neutral. “Our identity is handled by people who are - just like you.”
She gave him a sharp look. “It is people like me that prevents your culture from being absolutely forsaken. If Emperors govern the choices I make instead, I guarantee you they would not be as generous as me. It would be easier for them to simply obliterate these books – ” Amanda raised the one in her hand “ – than to read them as I do. It is my job to make those decisions. Otherwise, your history would be gone.”
“You carry a significant savior complex that does not allow you to see that possession does not equate respect.”
“Respect?” She laughed in disbelief. She jerked her chin towards the chandelier. “What did respect ever do for that boy?”
Amanda then shoved the book back into the shelf with a significant amount of force. “Besides, it has been quite evident that you know far more than you should about your people’s culture, language, and history – more than the Empire curriculum would allow.” She gestured to the room containing the altar and books. “Same with the children here. Evidently, people like me somehow have little, if any, effect on your people.”
Sarek inhaled deeply, but his hand still shook and his heart rate was mildly elevated. He always failed to give her enough credit. Sarek approached a problem with the facts directly in front of him, while Amanda filled in the gaps with what was most probable. She could see things that he would never consider, and thus she was coming far too close to Vulcan’s greatest secret.
He spoke neutrally. “May I be of any assistance?”
Amanda, however, still seemed irritated by the whole conversation. She didn’t spare him a glance as she skimmed though another book. “Just look around. Let me know if you find anything.”
There were two rooms connected to the loft, so Sarek went through them all. He found only empty mats and cots. More candles. He did not understand why they wasted their lives in such a manner. Besides hoarding lost Vulcan books, there did not appear to be any significant reason for them to congregate like so.
But there was one thing that became increasingly clear. It only took him a second to make his decision.
“There are two more individual that resided here.”
Amanda’s head snapped up from across the room. She was holding a tricorder. “What?”
Sarek stood at the doorway of a room, a cloth in his hand. “There are five cots. Five candles at the altar – five offerings. At least one of the two is a female, based on the presence of this rhir’an, a scarf that is worn only by brides.”
Amanda walked over and stopped in front of him. She reached out, running her hands through the fabric. It was poorly made. Traditionally, Vulcan silks and threads were used, but this appeared to be composited of Terran wool. But the sigil of a clan was carefully embroidered on the edge, marking the spouse’s clan.
Her eyes flickered up. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
For a beat, Amanda only studied him. Then, she let go of the rhir’an to the edge of overhang. “Officer,” she called.
While she relayed the information to down below, Sarek’s eyes strayed toward the ladder. He began to climb it, and his hands were soon covered with black soot.
He straightened to see that although the fire was put out, ash still clung thickly in the air. The fire appeared to have been started in the corner where it ate the roof and the wall's brick had collapsed from the water's pressure. The smoke was so thick that Sarek could not even see through to the stars.
Sarek took a step forward, and the wooden floors groaned loudly in protest. Stopping, he analyzed the source of the fire.
What was once a workspace with a desk and chair was now twisted metal. It was almost beyond repair, but Sarek could see that they were attempting to build something. A radio, perhaps? Or a –
A dark shadow suddenly lunged at him.
Sarek grabbed the assailant’s arm and twisted it sharply. He pulled, and the person crumpled to the floor.
“Ki’rathik,” they – she – wheezed. Take it.
Sarek froze, his eyes falling on the item in the Vulcan’s hands.
The stone was small – smaller than the size of his palm. It would be unremarkable, really, if it was not for the soft orange light emitting at its center. It pulsed, like a heart.
Sarek was not one to curse, but he would certainly make an exception in this case.
“Darling?”
Sarek ignored Amanda’s call, his intense eyes searing onto the girl's wide ones. Her eyes were black. Ni’raki, he wanted to spat at her. Fools. Why would they bring this here –
He swiftly grabbed the stone from the girl’s hand and tucked it into his coat. He could feel its warmth – its life – fluttering so close to his skin. It was almost intoxicating, and it would’ve brought him to his knees if it were any stronger.
He pulled up the girl. She was covered in soot – so much so that he could hardly see her skin beneath.
“Ni'droi'ik nar-tor,” he said. “Romhalan.”
She understood, he saw. Or more likely, she had long accepted this was how it would end.
Amanda’s voice was more insistent. “Sarek, what are you doing up there?”
Sarek stood and watched, as the girl walked up to the edge of the house, where the sky met the floor. The wooden floors creaked louder in protest, as if whining for her to stop.
The girl bowed before offering the ta’al. “Dif-tor heh smusma”
Sarek didn’t look away, as the girl stepped back and fell.
For a brief, blessed moment, there was silence.
Then a dull, sickening crunch.
“Sarek.” A hint of alarm was evident.
“Amanda.”
He waited as she ascended. “What the hell happened?” Amanda demanded. Her eyebrows were slanted downwards, indicative of anger. Her hands were stained, too.
Sarek walked to the edge of the house, where the girl stood just moments ago. He wordlessly offered Amanda an arm.
Surprisingly, she accepted it. Her hand slid into the crook of his elbow, and her grip was firm as she stepped forward and peered down below.
Already, the hovercrafts’ lights were targeted on her, illuminating a garish, vivid display. The girl’s broken body laid splayed on the concrete ground. A pool of dark green – appearing black in the night – slowly spread underneath her. The most terrible thing was that her leg was still twitching. Officers were crowding around the girl, and Sarek could see the coroner eagerly shoving his way in.
Sarek does not pray nor feel remorse, but he desired for her death. Death was preferable to whatever the Empire had in store for traitors. And Sarek refused to be tied to one.
“I found the female hiding up here. She ignored my attempts to speak to her and jumped.”
His lie came easily – it was not all lies after all – and he met Amanda’s stare, impassive and unblinking. She had very little reason to accuse him, especially with the girl so close to death.
Still, Amanda's jaw clenched, and she let go of his arm without a word. Sarek followed her down closely behind without a backwards glance.
Amanda began to rather vigorously scrub at her dirtied hands with a handkerchief. Huffing, she nodded towards the bookshelf. “I ordered Liu to help you package these books for us to take back. You will ensure that they are all accounted for in our vehicle.”
Sarek nodded and set to work.
Finally, the last thing he saw of the second floor was Amanda blowing out the candles at the altar.
The activity outside seemed to have slowed, now that the law enforcers have confirmed that there were no active insurgents in the area. Some groups checked house to house across the ghost town, while others left with the bodies and evidence.The fifth individual had either escaped or was nonexistent.
Sarek could see Liu directing the transportation of the books by the hovercraft. But as soon as Sarek stepped beyond the white fence, he found himself accosted by a broad Terran male.
“You,” the male ordered, raising his phaser at Sarek. The colorings of his uniform and badge were different from what Sarek had seen previously on typical Starfleet officers - gold with a dark crimson. Sarek had seen a sparse amount of these officers across the city, though he never cared to inquire their identity until now. “Demon, what are you doing here?”
“I am with – ”
Without warning, he reached for Sarek. Peculiarly, the male did not seem to care for Sarek's answer despite asking for one.
Sarek did consider resisting him, but to lay a hand on a Terran – even if they were the perpetrator – never boded well for another species. Particularly in such a public area. So upon the soldier's shove, Sarek fell down to his knees, hands stiffly on his thighs. The pose was as though he was meditating.
“You have no jurisdiction here, Demon,” commanded the male. “You and your fellow rats.”
“You are mistaken – ”
Suddenly, the Terran slashed his phaser down with a brutal force. Pain flared at Sarek’s jaw, and he staggered from the blow.
Sarek deeply inhaled before spitting out green blood. He looked back up at the man, his face smooth as stone.
“You will be taken in for questioning,” said the man, who raised the phaser back up at his head. “Any acts of opposition will be punishable – ”
“What are you doing with my intern?”
Sarek could not recall a time he had ever felt more pleased to hear Amanda’s voice, as arrogant as it was. But for once, her attitude was not directed at him. She was already pushing the fence door open, her heels striking the stone ground.
“Lady, you don’t want this thing as your intern. Back away.”
Amanda stepped forward despite his words, “You don’t know who I – ”
The man directed the tip of his phaser to her. “Did you not hear what I said?”
Amanda only appeared more indignant, but her words came out sweetly, “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t understand you with that cock in your mouth.”
Even Sarek was taken aback.
“Listen, you bitch – ”
It all happened very quickly: one second, the male was lurching towards her -
A shot of fire entered Sarek's bloodstream, and the urge to lunge – at the perpetrator - at Amanda, his mind warred – was violent -
- and the next, there was a flash of light followed by the dull thud of the Terran's body crumpling heavily like a stack of books.
Sarek's control snapped into place, and his breathing was unsteady, as logic assured him that the threat was dead on the floor. His dilated eyes narrowed upon the officer, who now had a gaping hole in his skull. His scarlet blood was grossly thick like wax. Matters of his brain were spilt out onto the grass.
Amanda seemed to be similarly affected, having inhaled sharply by the sudden attack. Her words were steady if not a bit breathless. “Was that truly necessary?”
A smooth voice replied from behind Sarek. “Of course.”
The Terran man lazily walked forward to kick the body over face down. Then, he walked up to Amanda.
Sarek unbiddenly tensed, as the man leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek.
“I can hardly let a man threaten my wife.”
Notes:
I'm cackling - things just got more complicated. I'd love to hear yalls thoughts!
Chapter Text
4 years earlier
Sarek is incensed.
That is the most apt term to describe the scathing roar in his ears, veins, and thoughts – the fire is so deafening that red creeps into his vision. He sees and tastes the color of lava, the color of the savage and broiling wastelands of Vulcan’s deserts. It burns at his skin and comes with an all-consuming desire to scream and rub his body raw until green – cool green – pools over his body in soothing rivulets. He wants blood – and he’s starving for it.
It is his third pon-farr, and he seeks she-who-is-to-be-his-mate. He forgets her name, forgets that she even has one. He forgets that this will be the sixth time that they will copulate (as even Vulcans, especially young ones, find that lust appears even outside the Blood Fever).
She is austere and restrained and cool like a soothing balm, with her long, silky, and straight ink-black hair and golden skin that sings – no, screams – to him. She is his - her blood and body and bones are his to drink, take, and consume - he wants to dig into her skin - until he reaches into muscle and sinew - organs bulging and bubbling - as deep as he can go - he needs to taste her - to feel her - he needs her. He -
– also laments. A deep, weeping ache of frustration and neglect that gnaws from inside his chest and threatens to burst like rotten fruit.
Does she not feel his pull on the temporary bond that they had formed from their youth – from when they were first sworn to each other? She-who-is-to-be-his-mate should’ve felt his demands hours ago. She should’ve come to him without wasting a second more.
He’s moving like a raging beast down her halls, seeing little. He heads to where her scent is thickest – and his nostrils flare when he smells something tainting her delectable scent. It’s musky, it's repulsive – it’s horrifyingly male.
Sarek slams against the door until it crashes down like a boulder, and his eyes settles on She-who-is-to-be-his-mate, who is panting while riding a Vulcan male – a stranger – like a wanton whore. Her hands are splayed on the Other’s twisted face in a display that was much more obscene than his cock snapping into her slick cunt.
She-who-is-to-be-his-mate looks up at him, her black eyes unseeing and her beautiful, angled face smooth and neutral. And Sarek –
He is howling. Laughing, is what it’s called, though he does not have a name for it. Sarek’s arms and shoulders begin to vibrate with anticipation, and the laugh is burning his lungs. He feels only delirium, a rush on mania and sweet joy and aching hunger.
The other Vulcan stands above She-who-must-die, his cock glistening with that whore’s slick, and he’s grinning too – a demonic, unnatural showing of bared teeth and bruised lips.
They’re both elated. Both aroused. For they know that one of them will die today. That the taste and promise of blood – of death and killing – awaits them. And they both believe that he will come out victorious.
Present
The urge to tear, hit, kill was – loud.
Sarek distantly studied his right hand. It trembled violently, and his efforts in shutting it into a fist were insufficient. He could scarcely so much as bend a finger in a controlled manner.
This was only one indication of his atypical physical state. The environment – his vision – was acutely clear and bright, likely due to a dilation of his pupils. Any movement within his vicinity was amplified. The strands of Amanda’s hair fluttering in a breeze, for example. His sense of smell was sharper. His eyes, now more black than grey, briefly shut at the overwhelming, dizzying scent of charcoal and honey. But they soon snapped open once more, nostrils flaring at a new, nauseating scent of a male.
The Terran – Amanda’s husband – donned the standard uniform of the Eternal Guards. Black, form-fitting suit with gold metal detail that was not unlike a Starfleet officer's uniform, but adorned in addition with a shimmering red sash that hung from shoulder-to-torso. A golden pin of an eagle set the sash against his breast. The rows of gleaming medals that lined the front of his coat indicated someone of more experience and a Starfleet rank of Commander. His strong features were not unlike that of the statue that had greeted Sarek upon his first step onto Terran soil. His attention was all but directed onto Amanda, who reached up to her face where specks of red blood stained her skin.
She spoke almost conversationally with ill-veiled (even to Sarek) irritation. “Cato, dear, I was not expected you today. I would think that such matters were beneath the attention of our Praetor of the Eternal Guards.”
Cato laughed, his white teeth glinting. His golden hair shone like threads of starlight, and his eyes winked and shone as bright as his smile. His phaser in his hand – laxed yet comfortably held – still burned a soft red. “Any threats to our city’s security are of great interest to me, especially when my wife is involved.” He reached forward to cup and lift her chin. She did not lean in nor away from his touch. Cato’s thumb swept across a stray drop. “I had sent my officers ahead and only just arrived. Officer Liu – ”
“Oh, yes. Dear Liu and I have come to be very familiar with one another. He’s just so sweet – ”
“His husband says the same thing.”
Amanda dropped her saccharine pretense. “You know I don’t like all this noise interfering with my work.”
“I wouldn’t have made such an effort if you didn’t insist on coming yourself. A lady like you should not be leaving the city walls, especially with one radical already on the loose.”
“The only danger I’ve been in all night was from one of your idiot henchman – ”
The commander raised his hands placatingly. “Dear, he was a transfer from New York. Those oafs are trigger-happy over there.” Without glancing at Sarek, Cato nodded at his direction. “And that one – it’s a walking target.”
“He’s my intern.”
Cato finally set his eyes – a light amber under the harsh hovercrafts’ lights – on Sarek in a seemingly easy fashion, but Cato did not blink as he remarked, “He does not seem thrilled to be here.”
Sarek met his gaze unwaveringly. His veins thrummed with anticipation. Thirst.
Amanda only blithely shrugged. She was so densely unaware of how on the line Sarek was – they all were. “He’s Vulcan. They are hardly thrilled about anything.” Amanda reached up to straighten his medals, thus nudging Cato’s attention back to her. “He was who tipped about their being a fourth person.”
The commander stepped closer to her, until there was only a breadth of space between the two Terrans. “A shame about that one. Hopefully, the medics will be able to stabilize her. She could have a chance at redeeming herself and assisting the Empire.”
From over his shoulders, Amanda’s eyes suddenly snapped to Sarek’s. Her words sharp as glass. “Do you not have a task to do?”
How long would it take, Sarek thought as he turned away, for the hovercrafts and soldiers and drones to shoot him down if he lunged at the pair?
To his utter relief Officer Liu finally seemed to have made himself of use and completed transporting items into their craft’s storage. The Kelpien driver wordlessly watched with large, pale eyes as Sarek stalked into the vehicle and the door furled shut behind him.
His harsh breathing filled up the small space. He could see the rushing of his buzzing, simmering blood as they coursed and pumped through his veins. He was an animal, seething with pointless, illogical rage. In a fleeting, wild moment of lunacy, he envisioned himself running into the forest – away from all this savagery. This agitation was abhorrent, and he needed it to end.
With great effort, Sarek closed his eyes. His shaking hands covered his face, his fingertips sliding into a familiar position over his neural nodes.
He focused on the heavy weight in his coat. It pulsed rhythmically, emitting a soft, rippling heat through his skin, muscle, and bone. It settled in his lungs, encouraging them to expand… relax… expand...
Sarek did not know how much time had passed but upon hearing approaching voices, Sarek finally dropped his hands, now steady. He cannot say that he was – resolved, but it was a temporary solution that should hold until he returns for meditations. So long as he does not find himself provoked.
Which, he thought as the door unfurled, may be unpreventable.
Amanda slid into her seat, her attention on her husband who uselessly stood in the way.
Cato squatted beside her. His hand was on her thigh. “I’ll see you for dinner.”
She was unrelenting, her mouth tight. “Don’t take too – ”
In typical Terran, brute-like behavior, Cato suddenly leaned forward, clasping his hand firmly behind her neck to pull her in. Sarek did not expect Amanda Grayson – the most ingenuine he had met on Terra – to return the action with similar fervor. One of her hand held his arm, the other stabilizing and clutched against the car seat. Sarek watched with unamused, forcibly detached interest as their mouths slotted against one another in this unhygienic, clumsy display.
His finger twitched, mildly. His knuckles turned white when he made a fist.
Cato leaned down to press his mouth against her hand on top of his, stood, and stepped back. The flash of his white smile was the last thing Sarek and Amanda saw as the door rolled back up.
Immediately, she reached for her purse to pull out a compact mirror. Her fingertips rested on her cheek as she turned her head so to inspect for any imperfections. The only one Sarek could find was the flushing of her cheeks.
Satisfied, Amanda sat back, breathless. Her eyes met Sarek, who had watched the whole interaction unabashedly – the epitome of stoicism. Her eyes narrowed at him, as if daring him to say something.
He did not.
Amanda tossed her hair back as she ordered, “Go.”
The return journey passed in much of the same manner – an inexplicable yet undoubtedly tangible tension that seemed just moments away from snapping, like rusting metal bowing outward. Looking out the window seemed too much of a concession, so he gazed steadfastly at the fine grain of the leather seats across.
It was satisfying to note that Amanda, however, seemed just as provoked. She sat as rigid as he with her curled hand pressed against her tight mouth. Her knuckles were bone white, like his.
Sarek entertained reasons for her disagreeable disposition. Perhaps it was her husband who aggravated her – the one with all white teeth and impassioned touches. Who could shoot his own men and endear his wife in the same breath. Ruthless, but reckless.
Good. Sarek could deal with recklessness.
How could Amanda entertain such a man? Unlike Cato, she is calculated, careful. She wears expressions like how one picks a necklace to wear, and she delivers information (and obtains it) as one aims a knife for the heart. She makes a living in reading people and their cultures. Understanding and using them.
Surely, Cato must be just another book in her collection.
Then, Sarek thought of Amanda’s flushed cheeks, and how Terrans are incapable of intentionally manipulating their physiology at such a level. Maybe Amanda is sincere in fondness for her husband. Maybe that is because she is only a Terran and thus too inept to control her emotions as he thought she was. (Or maybe she was precisely who Sarek knew her to be and was instead put off only due to the grimy, soiling conditions of the environment.)
“I shouldn’t have brought you.”
Frankly, Sarek was surprised that it took this long for Amanda to break the silence.
Sarek forced his hand to relax. “I was under the impression I had successfully provided some assistance.”
“Some, but you were more of a nuisance than you were helpful.” Amanda flicked a speck of ash off her skirt. “Constantly running off without a word and getting yourself into trouble – ”
“If you refer to the situation with the official, it was you who ordered me to go back to the hovercraft – ”
“So you should have went to the hovercraft. And you shouldn’t have strayed to the attic without my explicit permission.”
“There was not explicit prohibition.” Sarek swiftly continued before she could cut across. “I satisfied your order to inspect the other rooms – ”
“You really expect me to believe that? Stars – it is like you are actually trying to get me to kill you.”
The words whip out of his mouth with little hesitation. (It is peculiar, Sarek mused distantly, to feel so out of control.) “It would not be difficult as you have experience on that matter.”
Her voice came out just as sharply, coldly. “And what are you suggesting?”
“My predecessor. Your first Vulcan translator.”
“How, Sarek, did you come to know of Valkh?”
Valkh. “You had informed me upon our first meeting that I was three months late, and it was clear your translations had already made progress prior to my arrival.”
“And you dare imply that I killed him?” Amanda interrupted him in disbelief before he even uttered yes – “And you best think very carefully before you respond and reveal how little you think of my character.”
“So, murder transgresses your moral code?”
“Oh, Sarek, what did I say about morals again? I only mean to say I would not personally resort myself to something so messy.”
Sarek supposed she did not seem like the person to stab or shoot a person. Rather, she would ensure that a man – or Vulcan – would simply go missing.
As if she had telepathic abilities herself, she continued, “If it comforts you, I do not know where he is. Only that he is a cowardly thief who needs a good session in the agony booth if not absolute – and lawful – death.”
Sarek had very little doubts that the very item for which Valkh is accused of robbing from the Grayson family – is very much stuffed in his coat pocket. T’Priah thought Valkh was already dead and caught, but in actuality, Amanda very much wanted him to be dead.
“Then clarify. Why did you let me come in the first place?”
Amanda lowered her hand from her mouth and leaned back, considering him. He despised whenever she looked at him like this. A soft smile with no teeth. Wide, downturned eyes. Her voice was gentle and low – patronizingly, cuttingly. “Because you needed to see what happens when traitors are caught.”
A tense pause filled the air.
“Why?”
She spread her hand towards him, palms in the air as though to catch rain. “Because you, darling, are out of your depth here. So painfully naïve. You think you are so clever amongst us Terrans, despite never having stepped foot on this world until only weeks ago.” Amanda tilted her head. “For instance, some leniency is given by the Empire on certain matters such as the Underground – ”
Sarek tensed, but Amanda continued, “ – particularly now as we are a bit preoccupied with some intergalactic nonsense, but do not mistake yourself for untouchable, especially when it comes to the company you keep.”
The craft slowed, as they pulled up to the gates. Amanda moved to roll down the windows. “If you take anything from tonight, let it be that.”
By the time they reached the Municipal District, all the governmental buildings including the Weapon Sector were dark and empty. It was far past curfew for both Terrans and xenoforms alike, though he had seen throughout the night how the glittering pin on Amanda’s breast bestowed more benefits than simply aesthetics. The only movement came from the ever-present, bright holo-ads projected above the sidewalks – Ex astris, gloria, they said, with Starfleet’s arrowhead slowly spinning on its axis and pointing up to the clouds.
Sarek was silent as they brought the boxes down to Level Forty-Seven, and Amanda seemed to have equally exhausted her reserve of quips and ridicule.
“We’ll put them in storage,” Amanda directed, as the warm lights of the library turned on in waves and reflected off the wooden floors and shelves like firelight. She led them up the second floor and to a half-filled bookshelf. “Arrange by material – those that are more fragile and require immediate care will be placed to the side and handled tomorrow.”
Only the highest rows were empty, so Amanda lugged out a tall, wooden ladder. She propped it up against the shelves.
His black eyes watched fixedly as the ladder rattled uncomfortingly as she stepped up three rungs and snapped her fingers at him. “Let’s be quick about it. Hand them to me once they’re sorted.”
He worked quickly and methodically, taking the opportunity to fall into the calming rhythm.
But as she rocked up on her toes to reach the highest shelf, his eyes lingered on her form. Her heels were hardly the ideal shoewear one would don for climbing a ladder, he vaguely noted. The sinew of her slim, bare calves would tense and relax in a hypnotic fashion as she swayed. Her skirt would slide across her naked skin in a quiet whisper that beckoned to be heard. Specks of charcoal and soot stained the hem of the silk.
“Darling.”
His eyes snapped up to her amused eyes. She held her hand out expectantly, an eyebrow arched.
Unrepentant, Sarek gazed back steadily as he placed a set of books in her hands, and Amanda held the books up above her head to place on –
Suddenly a harsh, violent spasm ripped along her arm. The books slipped out her fingers. Her spine bowed as though electrocuted. Sarek’s hands flew out to steady the hopping ladder.
The loud, crashing thud of the books hung deafening in the air.
Whatever peace he had acquired was shattered. His blood burned, but he watched Amanda with a stillness, pupils dilated. She had caught herself on the ladder, her body as stiff as his. Her eyes were shut. She did not appear to be breathing.
Sarek itched to just reach up and touch her cheek to just know –
He crushed the compulsion.
Instead, he squatted beside the book, elbow on his knee as he picked up the heavy item. His finger swept over the leather binding before he stood to place it back on the table. By the time he straightened, Amanda was watching him, her skin ashen. After a beat, he held out his hand.
He waited as Amanda warred between her pride and her need. He largely expected her to lash out at him, like a wounded le-matya. Toss her hair and unleash a verbal onslaught.
Instead, she accepted it, somewhat. Rather than touch his hand, his skin, she grasped his sleeved arm tightly. She let go as soon as her feet hit the floor and immediately turned to sit on one of the rungs.
Her breathing was painfully stilted, but she spoke with the finality of a judge. “You will finish this tomorrow.”
Sarek stared at her. Surely, she could not be so obstinate.
“Go,” Amanda ordered, a bit of color back in her face. “I have to finish a few other things.”
“It is my role to – ”
“It is your job to follow my orders,” she snapped, her dark eyes glinting. “It is past your curfew. Take the craft back to your residence and go straight home. Don’t wander.”
“You clearly require assistance.”
“You are not responsible for me, so don’t you dare speak for me.”
“You are unsound if you – ”
Suddenly, her face warped into something ugly. Her voice uncharacteristically shrill as she snapped, “Out. I want you out of here now.”
So Sarek turned sharply. He did not look back as he descended the stairs and strode across the Library. The door slammed behind him, far louder than was appropriate.
When he exited the Weapon Sector, he stalked past the Kelpien. Its large blue eyes followed him as he headed towards the direction of his compound.
He had never had the ill-fated pleasure of meeting a person so stubborn and pretentious as Amanda Grayson. His sixty-two years of following Surak’s teachings were struggling to hold up against the amount of anger and indignation he felt towards this one person who scarcely even reached his shoulders. Could Amanda truly be so prideful? She had appeared seconds from falling over, and her first instinct was to lash at him like some mindless, primitive animal. That was all Terrans were, really, and it was a blunder for him to forgotten it.
For Vulcans, the philosophy was simple: rid yourself of any source of agitation. While lives were not to be wasted unnecessarily, maintaining one’s sound disposition was of utmost importance to a Vulcan. Thus, it wasn’t too uncommon for one to simply eradicate the problem with discretion.
But to rid of Amanda Grayson was like getting rid of an embedded le-matya claw. Hooked in design, to pull them straight out would only lead to further damage, as it caught against muscle, nerves, and bone. The poison coating the claw would have infiltrated the bloodstream and travel from the wound all the way to the heart, where it would seize a vicious attack until the heart simply gave out. That was Amanda Grayson, and she didn’t even need to touch him for that to occur.
The familiar brick that was his compound appeared in sight.
Go straight home. Don’t wander, Amanda had ordered.
But as Sarek would say in her own words – You are not responsible for me.
Sarek found T'Priah at the tables playing chess with a Denobulan.
She was so far winning, of course, but the Denobulan was giving a fair fight it seemed, based on his own collection of her white pieces. Sarek stood close beside her, as he gazed down. She ignored him, causing his hand to twitch. He found he had very little patience available in waiting for the match to finish.
“This game is done,” he ordered the Denobulan. Without question, the male gave a wide, inappropriate smile to T’Priah before shuffling off, not offended in the slightest.
Sarek sat in the open seat and pushed the game to the side under T’Priah’s disapproving gaze.
“You are becoming as impatient as a Terran.”
“I simply value my time, which involves knowing what is and what is not necessary. A child’s game is not.”
“Perhaps you need to spend less time running with Terrans and more time meditating. I find something as simple as chess to be quite stimulating, nonetheless.”
T’Priah studied him. If she noticed the tension in his shoulders, the blackness of his eyes, or the snap in his voice, she did not say anything. She only noted, “This is a later time than your typical comings.”
“The Empire discovered a hideout beyond the walls.”
They both fell silent, as an Orion shuffled past them.
T’Priah stood. “Let’s discuss elsewhere.”
He knew his ire was illogical. The market was hardly an appropriate place to have such a conversation, so he stood and followed T’Priah into the tunnel of Line 4 South. It was near black, with only muted small candles scattered across the floor.
There was a quietness like the hovering pause between breaths, but strange sounds soon began to pierce through. Sarek cocked his head, slowing to hear.
It clicked when a particularly loud, feminine moan reverberated down the tunnel.
Sarek had never been through or close to Line 4 South before, which always appeared dark and empty. But now, as he walked among couples pressed up along the walls or sitting in each other’s laps, he saw that it was indeed very much occupied.
In any other day, Sarek would have simply strode by with scarcely a glance. But now his blood thrummed, and his eyes lingered on these – couplings. The pairs were so diverse between sexes and species that most of the time, he could not tell who the customer or the provider was. It felt warmer, more stifling here. The air was thick with grunts and gasps and the heavy scent of sex.
Just as his disgust beginning to overpower his arousal, he stopped.
She was lean and gaunt, her cheeks hollowed from hunger. A slip of a dirtied dress hung from her bony shoulders, and her thin arms were cradled into her stomach.
The Terran’s hooded eyes stared at him with ill-veiled interest. Upon seeing Sarek’s returned attention on her, she bit her pink, cracked lip.
His body was fraught with tension as she pushed herself languorously off the wall. His hand twitched by his side, his unblinking eyes drawn to her dark brown hair and pale skin–
“Sarek.”
He snapped his head.
The candlelight behind T’Priah shadowed her features, but his dilated eyes easily picked up the succinct arch of her eyebrow before she turned and walked deeper into the tunnel.
Sarek could not recall how he ended up just feet away from the Terran woman, but it did not matter. She was already slinking away. Her seasoned eyes knew when a meal was lost and were already searching for a new one.
The tunnels wound into the Earth with so many twists and turns, as though it was made by a worm. The smell of dirt and rust became nauseatingly loud, and the air more uncomfortable to breathe. He had learned that parts of the Underground were uncharted – extended sections built from times of war. The rich commonly used them to hide, and the military for tactics.
Eventually, long after the last person was seen, they reached a door with a dirtied UTILITY sign hammered on. T’Priah pushed it open, and it swung smoothly and silently despite its rusted appearance. The interior was made entirely of metal and the size of a large closet, perhaps four paces wide. A single lantern the size of his palm sat in the corner, and turned on to emit a dim, green light that washed over T’Priah’s strict frown.
“Explain,” she said.
While he paced across the room, she listened to his account with a still attentiveness. Her pale eyes were cool like mist.
When he finished, she asked, “How did she discover this location?”
Sarek stopped, a searing sensation erupting from his chest. He was not meant for this kind of place – trapped in such a cold, narrow space deep in the soil. He hated Terra, he fumed. Abhorred it.
“She carries the knowledge of our people. The Vulcans there must have sent a message for one of their comrades to find their way to them beyond the walls, and it was left behind for the Empire to find. Utter fools.”
“You led her to them.”
A wave of heat hit him again, causing him to almost tip over with it. His hand grabbed onto a shelf, his fingers wrapping tightly around as though it was a neck.
“You led them there.” His voice was cutting like cracked clay. “Led these youth to die. You are not with T’Pau – she would not let such blatant, primitive acts of resistance occur – ”
Finally, T’Priah’s smooth expression broke into something akin to contempt. “And you clearly are with T'Pau – inviting the Terrans in so that you may retain what little power you have – ”
“It was erroneous on my part to assume that a k’shatri would know our ways. You do not know how to survive as we do and because of that you nearly revealed the essence of our people to the Terrans. You’ve spent more years on this planet than you have in Vulcan – ”
“And who’s decision was that?” asked T’Priah. “The one who sent a creche of children to the hands of this forsaken civilization to get experimented on. She who first invited Starfleet soldiers to finally occupy our lands, all to detract from her bloody part in preventing an alliance between Romulans and Vulcans.”
“An alliance," he scoffed. "We were at war with the Romulans. Their terrorists infiltrated our government and bombed our institutions – ”
“T’Pau is an extremist who called for a vast dictatorship, which a Vulcan-Romulan alliance would have threatened, and she was already exiled for such views by the High Command. She framed the Romulans for planting bombs in Shi’Kahr when it was really her and her spiders, took control of the weakened Vulcan government, and invited the Terrans in. And now she does not act for our future, only her own, and she has every single Vulcan blindly loyal to her that is not unlike the Emperor to the Terrans.”
“For you to accuse our consul of treason, I expect for you to have substantiation.”
“I have a witness, one of many, and you are currently holding it.”
Sarek refused to look away from her eyes, which were pointedly looking at his coat.
“Keep it,” she said with a maddeningly neat shrug. “Meditate tonight with it, and let it reveal the truth the crimes T’Pau committed against our people.”
Since when was it he who was so unaware of his surroundings? In Vulcan he was at the very near center of politics, but here he was constantly being lied to or used for unknown purposes. Perhaps Amanda was right to suggest that he was ‘out of his depths’ as she so quaintly stated.
That made him irater.
“Even if she did, both she and our people conduct our affairs knowing that rebellion is futile against the standing Empire. Yet you took it upon yourself to conduct a senseless, failed insurrection that led your people dead.”
She tilted her head. "On the contrary, I acted not alone but for a cause. I am only one part of a larger - "
Before he knew it – before he thought – he was pushing her against the wall. One arm pressed against her airway, and his other hand bruising on her shoulder. One targeted pinch, and she’d be dead like the other Vulcans found that night.
“I want – ” Sarek began, with a barely restrained calm “ – to see them.”
“I will take you to them but not until you are in a controlled state of mind.”
“Now.”
“No.”
He squeezed her throat and hissed, “If you do not comply – ”
“The nature of your agitation is clear,” T’Priah wheezed, yet somehow perfectly levelled. It was the calmest, most Vulcan-like he ever seen the Terran resident. “You need to center your mind, for which I am able to assist.”
Sarek stilled, even as her neck flexed hungrily for breath beneath his palm.
T’Priah was physically pleasing, Sarek knew. With her length and her slant figure and her long, fine hair. She was the perfect image of calm and logic, with her neutral expression and wide, knowing eyes. She was like the ancient priestesses of Sehket, asking Sarek for an offering.
Sarek pushed forward, forcing their bodies to meld to each other. He ducked his head, pressing his cheek against T’Priah’s temple. He skimmed his nose down to her jaw. His eyes fluttered shut. T’Priah was not blinding nor searing nor red – she was tempered steel, slate-grey, and a dizzying warmth that soaked into his chilled, flushed skin yet cooled the fires of his blood. She did not hurt to touch, or force either of his body or mind to fail.
Above all, she was willing.
Sarek bucked into the slot between her legs, a hiss of air escaping his gritted teeth as the growing ache at his groin was met with a delicious pressure. T’Priah’s nails dug sharply into his waist, doing little in buffering the force of his thrusts which were only increasing in frequency and intensity.
His impatience flared as the itch only grew. With minimal preamble, Sarek pushed aside her long skirt and her garments, pulled his own member free of his confines, and then held her hips firmly as he sheathed himself in a perfunctory thrust.
Sexual intercourse is only a bodily demand. It is a nuisance – an irritant, he corrected himself, as he let out a low groan at the spine-tingling friction and T’Priah puffed out a decidedly un-Vulcan-like, “Fuck.”
Her heels dug into the back of his thighs for purchase as he moved in a manner universal to nearly every humanoid. His hips thrusted upwards to chase her heat in a clean, powerful stroke, and T’Priah’s body would jerk from the force. Even he cannot deny that he is very capable in experiencing pleasure. In a few past occasions, Sarek took advantage of the shared, rebounding sensations that is felt amongst Vulcan telepaths, and he would satisfy the pleasure of his mate as well – but in other times, such as now, he sought only a means to an end for himself.
Control, Sarek commanded himself, as his breathing grew harsh and short moans bubbled out of T’Priah’s mouth. But just as he began to recite mantras of meditations in his mind, T’Priah’s hand suddenly gripped his forearm –
The red gem on her finger was glaringly bright at as Amanda dug her nails into the skin of that Terran’s wrist. Sarek’s blown-out, still eyes watched with unnerving attentiveness as her back arched, not only to lean in to Cato but also to push back –
T’Priah released a sharp inhale and squeezed around him as his hips snapped forward brutally. Whatever rhythm or restraint he had before was chased away, as –
Amanda looked at him afterwards, her eyes dark and pupils’ dilated. Her wet pink lips and flushed red cheeks. Her haughty, proud look, as she tilted her chin up at him, as if daring –
T’Priah reached a hand up, and Sarek snarled, grabbing her wrist, and slamming it against the wall. The sound of bone and hips and shoulders hitting the steel wall echoed obscenely in the tunnel. He could hear the lewd sound of her slick every time he impaled himself in her completely.
That woman was always trying to fight him at every turn. Sarek wanted to push her down until she cried out – until she begged for – for –
His release came suddenly and inelegantly. A stiffening, a groan, and a spill. A stifling silence, and a sobering clarity.
He stepped away, as he buckled his trousers. T’Priah, after a beat, straightened her clothes as well. His anger – and lust – was sated (temporarily, he thought with a bitterness).
Shame and confusion sunk deep into his bones like oil, and Sarek gave stiff nod to T’Priah, who only watched as he turned and walked out.
Notes:
Poor Sarek - he's not even aware of his feelings until it quite literally explodes in his face.
Also if you guys are interested, here is the playlist that I write this work to. If Mirror Universe had a film soundtrack, this is what I imagine to be like (weirdly specific but true): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/58AMbMS0ZbTQK0uIrwWhqY?si=83a6950a5a7e4e79
Chapter Text
… With the use of the telephone has come a new habit of mind. The slow and sluggish mood has been sloughed off. The old to-morrow habit has been superseded by "Do It To-day"; and life has become more tense, alert, vivid. Discover what led Alexander Graham Bell to his breakthrough… the scientific refinements that made the telephone more useful. How the technology quickly shifted from a novelty to a necessity. How the telephone was revolutionized banking, industry, journalism, government, even farming, and much more…
The History of the Telephone by journalist Herbert Newton Casson (1869-1951). He is also the author of The Romance of Steel: The Story of a Thousand Millionaires, Making Money Happily: Twelve Tips on Success and Happiness, The Crime of Credulity, and Creative Thinkers.
The night world shook around Sarek, sending streaks of white light across the suffocating blackness around him. He was tumbling within a great void with no sense of direction nor control. Accompanied only by the sensations that he was falling, dropping, lurching. Like a shaken, ruptured yolk trapped within a thin fragile shell, spilling into the weightless glair suspension.
Surak. Now he was spouting meaningless analogies.
To speak more plainly, he was deep underground, buried underneath an unnerving, suffocating amount of soil and steel. His knees and palms stung as he barely caught himself from face-plating into gravel. The shaking persisted. Perhaps it is part of the earthquakes that this area of Terra is known for, but no, that is a foolish guess.
Clearly, Sarek thought as he crawled on his grey-tinged hands and knees to the tunnel’s walls, I am mentally impaired.
He pulled his legs to his chest and rested his forehead on his knees. He shut his eyes tightly and forced his diaphragm to collapse, his nose to inhale, and his lungs to expand. Then the reverse - relax, exhale, contract. A repetitious cycle that a Vulcan should have as much control as one would with deciding to tap a finger.
The chills were even worse, as his body was adjusting to the sudden drop in temperature as his low-grade Blood-Fever passed over. It was as though the Eternal City’s bitter, winter air had frozen his once-boiling blood over. His innards felt as though they were rolling inside him. It felt like a stranger's body.
Enough.
Sarek withdrew from the distracting, disagreeable signals coming from the physical form and instead burrowed himself until he found the quiet pocket of his mind. His bodily sensations became muffled. All the noise just - sucked away.
Finally, he could just think. His newfound composure was precarious, but it was enough to take assessment of his current situation:
- By being unresponsive to his commands, his body was in a state equivalent to Terran shock.
- He carried a katra in his coat pocket.
- Sarek had spent every minute on Terra as an ignorant pawn, and now T’Priah suggests that he had been a pawn even far before he left Vulcan.
He pulled out the stone with numb fingers, only vaguely recognizing the heat on his skin.
His clan crypt was full of these stones. They ranged in shades from ocher to the palest orange of sunrise. They can be dull, eroded from time not just in terms of shape but also in energy. Or murky and foglike. Some clear as glass. Every one carried a katra, and thus each has a unique disposition. A few were malignant - souls hungry for a living body to drink energy from, but most were sleepy and required coaxing and time to connect with.
The one he carried was fractured. A crystalline material of dark orange with cracks spindling out from drill marks and cuts, likely from being butchered under the hands of the Graysons.
Its memories were splayed open like a cracked skull. Shredded and scattered like confetti. Banging against the walls of his quiet little pocket, screaming for Sarek to let them in.
So Sarek opened the doors.
she is found in the brothel. already used and spent on by another trio of terran males – the first wave of diplomats sent by the budding terran empire. they croon about the pleasure of the exotic. they like having a fuck doll with glassy eyes and flat expressions, and they stifle her with the weight of their bodies and mind. they press their primal emotions into her skin. they seep from her legs and linger on the tongue.
when Her Spiders come out from the shadows and slits their throats, the aliens' blood spews an ugly red on her chest and thighs until she feels cleansed. their limbs collapse like strings cut from a puppet. as she feels the exhilarating rush of life flitting from their bodies like a wisp of smoke, she knows she wants to feel it again.
it is a year before she is able to meet Her. (but in truth, she has met Her before. she feels Her even in echoes – every time a Spider brushes against her mind to deliver orders and news. a weighty, heady burst of stimuli that bleeds into every sensation and leaves her shaking.)
oh, She is everything she had thought Her to be and more. delicate features on a slim frame that tilted forward, like a bird with wings spread. but it was Her eyes, dark and vast as the night sky that trapped her.
and she is young and oh so eager to please. it is not often that anyone captures the attention of the T’Pau, and she will do whatever it takes to keep it so. if it means lying in Her sheets and showing what she was taught, that is hardly a demand at all –
Her Lady is so generous. Her Lady drags Her nails along her scalp and down her spine, lighting her nerves on fire while whispering glorious things to her as she trembled. Her words slither into her hazy mind like eels until they are tattooed in her every thought. she has never known such ecstasy -
there are devils are piling up at their door – slick-tongued terrans and ravenous romulans. but they are nothing to what their people are. they do not have our beautiful minds or heat-tempered bones or longevity, they are mere playthings stumbling in the darkness of the cold void. we must ensure our place in the universe, we must pick the lesser of evils –
her blood thrums as she and Her Lady watch the triumphant blaze eating away shi’kahr’s ministry halls. all those traitors and romulan-sympathizers are gone, and vulcan will remain undiluted. Untainted.
with most of the officials of the vulcan confederacy and romulan empire turned to ash, the terrans easily swoops in and builds a vividly white palace. Her Lady graciously steps forward as their leader, and all would be well.
the years that pass under terran rule are – unprecedented. vulcans are a slow aging race unused to abrupt changes, but that is all these terrans bring. she does not complain about what she cannot stop, only helps Her Lady to adapt. they let the terrans in, let them grow comfortable until their hungry gaze finally sets to the stars once more.
the enemy is out there, they say. we will help you defeat them.
but even when the empire's presence lessens, they still demand more. demand more of their people for labor, for new technology, for soldiers. then their children, who are sent off to the unknown expanse to terra.
Her Lady assures her these children are taken care of. but a dark, anxious thing creeps awakens inside her. she knows what it is like to be traded and sold. to be used and owned -
the terrans do not collapse under their weight, as Her Lady thought they would. they grow to become the largest empire in known history, spreading eons of light years across. They eat at their culture, their language, and she sees their darkness festering in their younglings.
and Her Lady – She grows cold too. She spreads Herself among Her spiders so wide that She does not seem to be there truly. She meditates and lives through the eyes and minds of others. she’s seen a Vulcan stab himself with no hesitation, watched as the blood seeped beneath him, and all because Her Lady willed it so.
Her Lady’s strength is unmatched (unnatural, she whispers in the dark), and she feels Her eyes everywhere. (there’s something strange about Her words, the stickiness of them - )
Her Lady senses the change in her before she herself does. the knife slips in between her ribs, and Her Lady presses Her cheek against her own in a parting, almost sweetly.
Why, she asks. Green bubbles up to her lips.
Her Lady’s reply is simple – you are Mine.
dying is surprisingly mundane. Her Lady transfers her to stone. even in death, she is Hers. she feels Her touch from time to time. she observes passively, only lulled out of the state that was not Life but neither the Eternal Night.
suddenly, a stranger touches her. she shifts and flares in unease, but the Vulcan is ruthless. they dig through her memories skillfully, and they feel so familiar but it’s been long that she needed words other than what Her Lady had given her, and so she cannot pull the name.
he eventually leaves her too, used and beaten like the others have before.
something happens. something horrible. because now she’s being prodded and hammered by the touches of aliens. so loud and volatile, they steal her peace. and then, all she’s known is pain…
but…
someone is here.
listening.
You , free me.
Free me.
FREE ME. FREE ME FREE MEFREEMEFREEMEFREEME –
The soul stuck to Sarek's with a dull, deep pain. It was reluctant to let go and bear the weight of its emotions alone, thus peeling away the soul was like pulling out a parasite that had burrowed its way into his skin. Regardless, he ignored its begging and its cries - it had been alone for so long until only recently with Valkh - and worked to deworm it.
A single Terran rotation had passed. Far longer than a typical meld would take, but unsurprising given the aged state of the katra stone. Time was perceived differently by every single one. Typically the more interactions and stimulation a katra has, the quicker they are in responding. A venerable katra who is conferred often for clan matters, for example, may be able to hold conversations and impart timely advice. But for a katra who had been left to rest for decades - for millennia? A Vulcan’s attempt to communicate would be as impactful as a dust mote floating in the air.
His body was no longer racked with shaking (only his right hand still trembled but that was hardly atypical), and his skin felt clammy rather than feverish. Most crucially, his mind – though weary – was clear.
He lifted his head and saw mostly darkness. The stone thrummed restlessly against his chest, offering some illumination. The ground was cold and gravelly, and the air smelled of soil and rust. He could not recall how he came to be here, much less where in the turbo-tunnels he was precisely. He would need to ascend to decipher that., but that was hardly of present concern.
Not with the cloaked figure sitting across from him, who remarked, “It is about time - I had thought that I would need to start a burial rite.”
The stranger’s voice was deep and guttural like a beast, clearly not native to the Terran tongue.
Sarek’s low voice was harsh and cold. “Identify yourself.”
“An ally. At least so I aspire to be.”
“State your name.”
“What is a name worth?” the stranger mused. Covered in black, they appeared only as a hulking mass. Even their face seemed to be covered by a dark, shimmering material. “You would not trust me simply because I provide it.”
“A name ties together generations of a clan. A name caries duty, prestige, and legacy. A name - ” Sarek said with a faint bitterness “ - separates one from slave to citizen, from a valet to a Patrician. So indeed, a name is worth quite a bit.”
“T’Priah warned you would be – ah, what did she say – ‘disagreeable and difficult to get to listen to anyone’s thoughts but his own.’”
Tempered steel, slate-grey, and a dizzying warmth that soaked into his chilled, flushed skin yet cooled the fires of his blood -
Sarek’s lip curled as he shut the memory out. “If you are affiliated with T’Priah, then I seek no alliance. Nor do I suspect she would want one either.”
“On the contrary, she vouched for you.”
Perhaps she did prior to their copulation. “If you do not speak for yourself, then what do you speak for?”
“The Empire’s ruin.” It was said so succinctly that it would have agreed with Sarek’s sensibilities if it weren't for such stupidity.
“You are mad to speak so freely.”
“As a Vulcan, are you not curious to see what madness can build? It would be like an Andorian seeing the desert for the first time.”
“Just as deadly to as it is fascinating.”
"You’re not wrong, Vulcan. Should you come with me, I cannot guarantee I'd allow you to live afterwards. So are you going to go back to your quarters and meditate and help find insurgents with the Terrans - or are you going to get some more answers you seek?”
If Skon were here, he would command Sarek to walk away and report the stranger and T’Priah. Trust in She-who-knows-all. He would have forbidden Sarek from listening to a k’shatri outcast like T’Priah and melding with a wounded soul in the first place.
But Skon was not here. All because T’Pau had decided it, and Sarek had followed her loyally - blindly - for years.
“Very well, but I warn you - particularly in this state, I will be very difficult to kill.”
The stranger’s laugh boomed like boulders of rocks clashing together. They then stood, revealing a stature of at least seven feet.
“I am looking forward to test that.”
Despite their hulking form, the stranger moved across the rocky terrain with a surprising agility. They seemed unconcerned with the risk posed by Sarek trailing behind them, though Sarek was inclined to believe that they’d react swiftly and ruthlessly if he gave them reason to.
They were obviously non-Terran. In fact, they were unlike any xenoform Sarek had himself seen so far.
“Where you are from?”
“I come from many places and none,” they answered with their usual casualness. “But I was born in a monastery."
“You are religious?”
While Sarek still had far to go in understanding more emotive species, he was not inept in discovering motivation. It was a skill that had made him effective in politics - in reading the opposing party. Terrans for example were motivated with greed, lust, or righteousness. A belief that they can commit acts and crimes simply because they could under their Empire’s far casting rays.
“I did not find purpose nor divinity there, but I did come to appreciate the fine collection of history and books they had acquired.”
Clearly, religious faith did not resound with them. But knowledge was something Sarek could -
Then they added, almost like an afterthought, “I suppose I have that in common with Mrs. Amanda Grayson.”
Sarek resisted the urge to bang his head against the cavern wall. “Indeed,” he said.
Sarek had subconsciously yet meticulously cast that name to the very dark, shadowy parts of his mind. Tucking - no, smothering it away like the ugly little spark it was. Hearing it was thus unwanted.
It was undoubtedly a strategic revelation as well. The stranger intended to validate that they indeed knew T’Priah and show that they were aware of his relationship with - her. Therefore anything and everything Sarek had told T’Priah (under the erroneous assumption that she was working for T’Pau) was known by this figure as well.
Sarek’s pseudo-pon farr had spun him like a toy top and left his spatial awareness rather subpar. He did not know where in the Eternal City he was (a rather off-putting sensation), only that the ground was steeply declining, and the concrete walls had transitioned to crudely-cut stone. The air was moist and carried the scent of salt. He reached a hand out, and a fingertip dragged against the wall. It was damp and cool.
Some time had passed before the stranger broke the mutual silence, their baritone voice reverberating in the narrowing cavernous tunnels.
“At the time of their World War III, the Terrans were just as prejudiced and violent as now, but they inflicted their hate on each other rather than xenoforms. The elite classes of all factions - it did not matter whether they were on the same side, only if they had money - prepared for the nuclear fallout that was looming on the horizon. Bunkers were built across the world in mountains, islands, and anywhere else they may flee to.
“By the end, what was known as San Francisco was not spared. Ninety-percent of the city was leveled and destroyed, and much of the lands outside the city walls - as I’m certain you have seen - still carry the bleeding wounds of the war. Thus, while millions of their own people died from the bombings and radiation, many of the wealthy survived to begin to create the more united Empire we intimately know today.”
The rocky, moss-covered walls became smooth as obsidian glass, curving into a soft spiral. The rough ground became cleanly cut steps. Such precision enacted on such a hard rock deep under Terran ground would have required great technology and labor.
Sarek came to an abrupt stop as a flat wall of rock appeared just inches away.
The stranger said from behind him, “Take care, the flame carries a light.”
A voice came from within the rock. “So bright, stinging greater than a wolf’s bite.”
The stone wall shimmered like a quiet sandstorm whirling against a window pane, and the holo-projection fell.
A white light suddenly filled Sarek’s vision. The stranger was forced to turn away, but Sarek’s species had evolved in a three-star system. His pupils became pinpoint - barely a black to be seen in the expanse of grey. He focused on the half dozen masked forms that greeted them beneath the industrial-grade floodlight fixed above their heads. They each carried battered yet military-grade phasers in their hands.
One stepped forward and inclined their head to the stranger behind Sarek. “Sir.”
They waved their hand at Sarek. “I vouch for him.”
After the four guards spent a tedious amount of time patting him down with hands and scanning with hand-held sensors (at least ten years old, he noted), one went to a control panel on the side and inputted a sequence with their back strategically facing Sarek.
Behind the guards, a set of metal doors silently slid open.
Acutely aware of the guards staring at him, Sarek followed the Stranger in who said, “Welcome to Sanctuary.”
The silence was heavy in the air. Even their steps were muted on the cushioning, plush carpet. Certain he was being tricked, Sarek cautiously walked forward to a railing.
They were at the top level of the bunker, though this felt like an unapt term for what was more of a base that combined cold militarism with steel beams and sharp lines with civilian luxury - from the glass railings overlooking the courtyard at the bottom, the art on the walls, and the plush red carpeting. Shaped like a hexagonal barrel, the bunker was 5 stories tall. Soft yellow light rippled along the edge from the ground to the roof like a pulse.
Directly in front of Sarek and leveled with the fifth floor was a platform that appeared to be hovering in the air. Sarek could see a few forms standing and sitting on it.
The most disturbing aspect of Sanctuary was the courtyard. Once upon a time, the faux, saturated green grass would have offered a large space for exercise and social gatherings. But now tents and mattresses were strewn about in half-hazard rows. On them were men, children, women - families. The sheer number of people, perhaps nearing a hundred, made use of every square inch available. And that did not account for the other four floors, each lined with doors that likely led into smaller, private residential spaces.
Sarek had stilled, his eyes unwavering on the sleeping forms. He flexed his hand. The trembling was gone at least. “How many inhabitants?”
The stranger stood next to him. “Two-hundred thirty-four xenoforms. All are part of the Terran Diaspora as the Empire shift large populations across the sector for their use.”
Sarek should leave. The longer he entertained this, the more likelihood of incrimination. Ama - She had revealed to him that she knew he frequented the Underground. However, he did not know where her intel came from - did it come from the Empire’s records or from Her own sources? Were they tracking him? Were they waiting for him to lead them to hundreds of traitors, tucked underground like a present?
“How are you certain that the Empire does not already know of this - Sanctuary’s existence as they do with the Underground? That they are simply biding time as you coerce more into your neatly made trap?”
“The only people more paranoid than the typical Terran are rich Terrans. These bunkers were private endeavors as their creators did not want the corrupted governments to sell out such safe measures. Fortunately, we have discovered this one nearly a decade ago, and its internal logs confirm it has remained unused since its creation. Took two years to remove debris to find just one of its entrances - a painstaking process, given how much movement it required. And the Empire, though watchful, is hardly a passive government. They have limits onto when to intercede. The Underground is allowed so that their civilians may gamble and fuck and purchase to their delight. However, if one so much as talk of mass weapon purchases or whisper of insubordination, you find that they will not be seen again. Similarly, the Empire would not allow Sanctuary to exist for long- not with the dozens of guns and tons of foods and supplies its creators left behind.”
“So you are basing off computer logs that are over a century old - thus easy to tamper - and assumptions.”
“I assure you we have sources of our own to ensure this remains hidden.”
The stranger led him to their left, and they passed by red glass doors, each gilded with a gleaming gold number.
50 … 49 … 48 … 47 …
They circled around the hexagon until they reached the other side, where a walkwway extended out to the platform. The whole construction appeared precariously elegant, and he saw no cables or reinforcements to explain how the platform hovered stories above the ground.
His dark eyes swept upward to where he expected to see a high ceiling, yet he was taken aback by the shocking sight of a night’s sky. Only a few stray clouds scattered the inky indigo expanse. Stars were scattered like freckles, and a white crescent hung still. Terra’s moon, he realized. He was looking at the sky of Terra from over a hundred years in the past. No irreversibly polluted atmospheres and clouds. Just empty air and sheer breadth of space.
On Vulcan, Sarek would meditate outside when Alam’ak would set. He would see the distant but bright points of Behr’ak and Czar’ak, and a smattering of constellations - G’kila Rikh for the most fearsome warrioress of the Pre-Reform. O’sipak Phari, the northern triangle of stars said to contain the lost katra of Surak. But this holoprojection above him (because certainly, this ceiling was artificially created) was disquietingly different. It was an alien sky.
Yet Sarek was abruptly made aware of an ache that came just as much from his chest as it did in his mind. He did not know how much he longed to see the stars until then. It had been so long since he last saw them.
Scattered around the platform were four other individuals, each standing or leaning against the railing that enclosed the platform.
Teliss, a female who’s eyes cut into him with classic Andorian suspicion - the only species that could rival the Terrans for paranoia. “Her family were separated and sold into slavery,” explained the stranger. “She has not seen them in fourteen years, though she herself has escaped from the market stalls of the Underground.”
Laycan - an Orion male, once a pleasure slave. His sharp white teeth flashed into a grin as he eagerly described how he gutted the Terran business man who had once owed his body.
Crurkas, a Tellerite scientist. He worked as an engineer with Archer Aerospace before he managed to slip away and smuggle his family to Sanctuary.
Kolkrik, a humanoid xenoform of which Sarek had never seen before. White, yellow scales covered their entire body, leaving their facial features flat and reptilian-like. The stranger called them Xindi.
The Xindi spoke in a flat, drawn out whisper. “We are part of Sssanctuary’sss Councccil. Each of usss have been elected by our sssubsectionsss to represssent their decisionsss.”
They looked at him with either wariness or curiosity, all wondering about his place here. How he was going to help them when their fight against the Empire. How two-hundred thirty-four other individuals had to stand in front of them and prove their value. Something crawled in his skin.
“How democratic,” Sarek said, with a low bite that he had not heard from himself before. He stepped onto the platform, his hands clasped behind his back. “Though the options are slim, I imagine, for a community of cowards who have run away from the world to hide under the soil.”
The council bristled, with every single one stepping forward with a snarl on their faces. “Says the Vulcan lapdog,” spat Teliss. Her hand went to the holster at her waist. “Hiding behind the skirts of Terrans and your She-who-knows-all.”
Sarek leaned forward, his body taut with tension like a strung bow begging for release. He felt hotter already and the desire to see shed blood grew.
“Enough.” The stranger’s voice from behind him was - clearer. Unmasked.
Sarek stepped to the side, ensuring the rest of the council could not encircle him, and turned.
His blood reared at the sight, and he lunged.
Ever since Sarek was born, he has been surrounded by the words of the Terran Empire. Though Skon taught Sarek the contradictories of the Empire’s words in private, Sarek has always known the Empire’s values and opinions intimately. It was what they project onto him and, admittedly, what he knew to be true.
Including that Vulcans are valued. They are the dagger that the Empire wields to aid in their battles. Their steadiness, reliability, and aptitude for mental exercises made them efficient contributors to the runnings of the Empire. Better than the other brutish, unrefined xenoforms.
Including the Great Expansion, also known in secret as the Only War, the Great War, the War on Other. All different names for their efforts to consume the space around the Empire, to enslave all the other xenoforms they stumble by.
Whether in every daily news projection or in ads or in speeches, the images of savage beast-like creatures are ubiquitous. Snarling, carnivorous beings with crooked, sharp teeth and deformed skulls. The pungent odor of decay. The gutted, bleeding bodies left in their wake.
These are not just any xenoform. They are the representation of the very worst of other. Not an animal, no. Instead a conscious being capable of cruelty and shocking violence.
There is a warning, an order that has been ingrained in every subject of Terra, even Vulcans.
In the event a Klingon is spotted, kill on sight.
The silver-blue skin was tough like a Vulcan’s but much more elastic, like thick rubber. While a Terran’s skin splits at even the nick of a paper’s edge, the Klingon’s barely gave way when Sarek dug his nails into its throat.
A well-aimed kick at its kneecap, however, was enough to make it grunt and double down. Just as Sarek’s hand slid down the length of its jugular vein, to that bend where the neck meets the shoulder, to where there was a little bundle of nerves and blood vessels that when you press it just so -
Despite its large size, the Klingon moved with a surprisingly swiftness. Almost as if anticipating Sarek’s aim, he grabbed Sarek’s wrist and brutally slammed it against the edge of the railing with a resounding bang.
A sharp hiss escaped Sarek’s teeth as a whiteness seared up his wrist and across his vision. His knees buckled from not the pain that shot along his entire arm, but the horrible cold numbness of his fingers.
With a primitive instinct rearing up within him, Sarek slammed forward into the Klingon. It was caught by surprise and stumbled back a few steps, giving Sarek enough time to land a blow at its jugular. It made a choking sound and before Sarek could finish what he sought to do, the Klingon rammed its head down to Sarek’s.
The cracking sound of skulls colliding ricocheted across the dome ceiling, and within Sarek’s head, it felt.
Stupefied, Sarek hardly noticed he was tossed over the railing until the uneasy, twisting sensation of freefall encompassed his being.
He thought himself dead, but not even a second later did he slam into what felt like a very much solid ground.
Looking down, Sarek blinked to see that he was levitating five stories above the sleeping forms below. The air beneath him rippled with the soft blue light of a forcefield.
A deep, resounding laugh bounced across the domed ceiling.
Looking up, he saw the Klingon leaning over the railing and grinning down at him. “You are very amusing, Vulcan.”
It reached down and seized Sarek’s shoulder, hauling him over the railing as though he weighed no more than a youngling. The council had ill-veiled expressions of amusement and satisfaction as the Klingon said, “I am Voq, son of none. I’m glad we have fought, Sarek of Vulcan. There is no better opportunity to judge a character than when meeting them in battle.”
The sharp, almost blinding pain from Sarek’s wrist - and his skull - somewhat dispelled the feverish haze from his mind and abated his aggression. (Though it did take considerable effort to ignore the inexplicable rise of ire at seeing Teliss smirk at him.) He could not respond to such childish provocation, and he forced himself to assess.
Voq was not like any Klingon Sarek has seen in holographs. Its skin was a pale, translucent silver-blue, not unlike that of a frozen corpse.
“How is it that a Klingon is hiding in the heart of the Empire?”
“Like how every one of you have ended up here. Coerced, stolen, traded. As I have said, I was raised in a monastery at the edge of the Klingon Empire. Some Terran pirates decided to raid the community, which contained women and children, and commit a cowardly massacre. I was one of the few survivors which they took, and one of the even fewer that was sold to be traded in the black markets rather than tortured by Starfleet. I was taken to Terra to the Underground in secret - against the Empire’s knowledge - to be sold to the highest bidder for whatever purpose. But I managed to escape.”
The muscles of Sarek’s face protested as his face warped - his eyes narrowed and his lip curled into a sneer. It felt like trying to mold metal. “I was not coerced nor stolen nor traded. I have no interest in participating with your suicidal and ineffective inclinations.”
“What’s worse,” mused Laycan. “- being suicidal or ineffective?”
Voq replied just as conversationally, “I believe being complicit in the acts of a corrupt consul to be rather aggrieving.”
For a Vulcan, it was only foolish to insult the Terran Emperor Sato, but it was complete blasphemy to dishonor Consul T’Pau. Known also as She-who-knows-all and T’Kuht, names of great meaning to his people.
Sarek could demand for evidence. But the evidence was the surprising number of Vulcans such as T’Priah on Terra. It was the weight of the stone in his coat pocket and the memories of which it shared.
“I cannot claim to understand every one of the Consul’s decisions, but neither am I aware of the sacrifice she makes for our people every day. I have trusted her to hold the burden of All-Knowledge and to make the unpleasant decisions. Under her guidance, we are not ruined in status or autonomy such as it is for all of you.”
Old age made Crurkan speak deeply and gruffly. “There is no morality in bombing your own people to gain power, trading children for labor or lust, nor using manipulation to retain your position.”
Morals are what self-serving and sanctimonious people preach for to hate themselves less.
Sarek spoke to the old Tellerite bluntly. “In the matter of survival, we cannot afford such a luxury as morality.”
Voq’s voice was deeper than even Crurkan. It seemed to reverberate around them, as if the air molecules themselves were shuddering under its weight. “I understand it’s difficult to dissuade you from T’Pau’s devotion. As I understand it, her manipulation of telepathic psi-networks is exceptional. Her voice carries.” Voq paused. “That sort of manipulation - grooming can lead one to do horrible things… maybe even report one’s own father to the Empire and condemn him to his death.”
An ice settled in his bones. Sarek gazed at the Klingon coldly. “Do not presume you have even the basic understanding of what we are. Our telepathy capabilities does not include telepathic coercion.”
A voice came from behind him on the walkway. He stiffened.
“Why not?” T’Priah brushed by him and set beside Teliss. “Your half-brother was quite adept at it.”
She met Sarek’s eyes with a lofty aloofness, as though he was not inside her hours ago. Sarek could pretend, too.
“Silek participated in behavior that was not only illegal and nearly put our telepathy at risk of exposure - but also in behavior that was taboo that no Vulcan would condone. Mind melds, memory tampering - ”
“And coercion. Just like She-who-sees-all.”
“Silek was able to plant very mild urges through direct contact with a person. But to suggest that one individual is capable of manipulating the thoughts and actions of thousands through other people is absurd. Fantastical.”
“But you've felt it, haven’t you? Whenever T’Pol or whatever lackey she sends brushes against your hand and gives you a seemingly harmless list of tasks, you hear her voice.” T’Priah leaned back. “None of us can explain how it is possible for T’Pau’s reach to cross so far, but it is. That stone proves it - T’Pau’s touch is steeped in it. Still being in power despite all the crimes against our people proves it.”
Sarek paced across the platform, ignoring the gazes of these doomed individuals. It was inappropriate for him to show his restlessness but he could not bring himself to care.
Vulcans are touch telepaths. They require skin contact to initiate an exchange, whether it be of thoughts, feelings, or the mind itself. Yet it was possible for a psi-connection to linger, particularly for mates or family members. The stronger the connection between the two, the greater the likelihood the psi-connection would endure.
What T’Priah was suggesting went against the nature of a Vulcan.
How could he come to terms if T’Pau really could influence - that he may have condemned his father to death? But Sarek, currently away from the influences of said-possible coercion, did not believe he felt grief. Regret, perhaps.
(What did it say about him, if he complied willingly rather than through coercion?)
“Why would T’Pau have wanted my father dead?”
T’Priah’s shoulders raised and dropped. “I cannot say.”
“How did this stone end up with a young Vulcan female on the outskirts of the Eternal City?”
Voq answered, “The Graysons acquired the stone two years ago from one of their many expeditions to Vulcan. T’Priah and Valkh were made aware of its existence after undergoing an extensive interrogation regarding what it is. The Empire seems to recognize its uniqueness but otherwise have no leads. Valkh managed to smuggle it out and to one of our hideouts - the very one that you had helped the Terrans discover.”
Crurkas cut in, “Valkh had lacked the self-control you Vulcans pride yourself on! Constantly muttering about blood and honor and revenge!”
T’Priah glanced at Sarek. “Valkh was a kai’tafar lafot. That was why he was placed in our creche.”
Ka’tafar is the second stage of emotional discipline that every Vulcan is taught as a child. Those who fail are termed as lafot, or a defect. They are unable to have the mental rigor required for meditation. Their thoughts are unrestrained, unsorted. It makes them almost like Terrans - more prone to outbursts of both emotional and physical kind.
Was it coincidence that (Sarek suppressed the rise of yamareen levels in his blood) Amanda chose Valkh of all Vulcan workers in Graysons Industries to come to Level Forty-Seven and work for her? The difference in temperament of a lafot to someone such as Sarek or T’Priah would be noticeable, even to a Terran. Perhaps she noted his lack of self-command and thought he would be more telling regarding Vulcan secrets.
If that was the case, what - if anything - did Valkh tell her? Why did he run?
“It is a good riddance he’s dead,” muttered Teliss. “More trouble than that one was worth.”
Sarek paused and turned to the Andorian. He confessed he felt somewhat of a satisfaction in correcting, “He is not dead.”
“What?”
“Amanda Grayson denied killing Valkh. In fact, she is unaware of his current status and whereabout, just as you all are.”
T’Priah frowned. She spoke directly to Voq. “He knows the tunnels as well as any of us, and that’s assuming he’s even within the walls of the Eternal City.”
“I fail to see how this is any of your concerns,” Sarek said shortly, flicking his wrist towards them. “Valkh, T’Pau, stones - these are Vulcan internal affairs.”
“I agree,” sniffed Teliss, who still seemed itching to stick Sarek with her knife. “But that is our agreement, our values as the Coalition. We seek to benefit our worlds and alter their course towards freedom.”
Laycan’s white teeth flashed with light as he tossed his long black hair over his shoulder. “While we try to change the figurehead of Vulcan, we undermine the slave trade.”
“And sabotage the warships built by our best engineers in Tellar!”
“Also take back the raw minerals stolen from Andoria.”
“And the dilithhhium and cccitizensss from every one of our homeworldsss.”
“While also monitoring the war effort on Klingon,” finished Voq. “It is in our own best interest to aid one another. Any blow against the Empire benefits us all. In combining our numbers, resources, and intelligence details, we find we are much more effective in our endeavors.”
An ugly thing was rising in his chest and filling his lungs, but he managed to stifle it - his laughter before it escaped. Sarek did not know it, but there was a glint of cruel amusement shown clearly on his face.
“Your words are the same uttered by the Terrans when they first came to our world.”
Voq considered him. His face was unreadable when he ordered, “If you all may, I would like to speak to Sarek of Vulcan - alone.”
The members departed with little complaint. Only Laycan provided an unwarranted grin, and T’Priah shot him a warning look.
Good. Less for Sarek to fight through if he needed to escape.
But instead of trying to judge his character, Voq sat heavily at the center of the platform and gestured across from him.
As Sarek joined him, he was struck by the image of his father teaching him how to meditate as a child.
It was somewhat unnerving to be met with Voq’s still disposition. Sarek’s understanding of Klingons came not just from Terran propaganda but also the memories of his clan members, including his father. Vulcan-Klingon interactions prior to the Occupation were few and limited to the destruction of their ships whenever one strayed too close to the other’s border. While Vulcans favored a clean, efficient method of destroying their life support systems (thus killing inhabitants but retaining their computer logs and ships), Klingons preferred to transport directly into Vulcan ships and attempt slaughter.
Attempt was the correct term. While Klingons admittedly bested Vulcans more often than not, Vulcans are one of the few species to be able to hold their own against the warrior race.
“For the sake of honesty, I have not completely turned away the option of killing you. Even in your - elevated state, I am certain I would succeed in doing so, as we saw earlier,” Voq said, nodding to Sarek’s now-swollen wrist. Understanding washed over Sarek - their skirmish earlier was an assessment of his physical skill as well.
“Then clearly, there is something you believe I can give you.”
“You had asked why T’Pau had chosen to have your father killed. Perhaps you should ask why she sent you and many others to Terra, where no one leaves. The gravity well of the Empire.
“After all, she gave you a vague, distracting task to one of the more notorious families of the Empire, likely thinking you would not last long. After all, Leon Grayson’s not known for his gentle touch. But by a stroke of luck, you were given to his sister, arguably the less temperamental of the Graysons. What I require of you is no different that what T’Pau had instructed. Monitor. Report. Entertain.”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “Entertain.”
“Amanda Grayson hasn’t rid of you yet, but she stays away from the public eye and is known to be very careful about who she has around her. However, she is around some very valuable intel, and by extension so are you. You must make yourself valuable to her so that she does not cast you aside.”
Sarek thinks of her. Her eyes flashing and her ankle swaying. “You imply seduction.”
Voq boomed into laughter. “I suppose so, of a sort. I do not need to meet her to know she is a collector. She thrives in domination, colonization, control. Give her a fix of that. Fascinate her with the information you hold.”
I want you out of here now.
Pain sparked across Sarek’s hand as he flexed into a fist. “Unfortunately, I may no longer be of much use. It is possible that she decided she no longer has need of my services.”
Voq surveyed him for a moment longer.
Restless, Sarek continued, “You cannot think that with these 234 people you can take down a whole Empire. These are not warriors. In saving their lives, you have condemned them to a life in the soil. They might as well be dead.”
“You seem to be under the impression that we intend to stay here.”
The stars were slowly moving across them, he noted, mimicking the rotation of the planet. “You seek to leave Terra.”
“We’re not here to topple an interstellar government with just a single battle. The war for freedom starts here, but I won’t lie to you - it will take years. Our goal for now is simply to survive. To spread word and courage and hope.”
Sarek was unconvinced. From what he had heard, there was no great plan in motion. Just desires and dreams.
But their numbers were adequate. Their reach and influence within the Eternal City was admittedly extensive - from within Grayson’s Industries to Archer’s Aerospace Associates to the Underground to even outside the city walls themselves. The existence of Sanctuary was a feat itself.
It was a start.
“I cannot claim to share the same aspirations,” he said. “I believe in Vulcan’s longevity, not on a galactic war for freedom. Yet so long as our goals align, I will assist.”
Voq grunted approvingly. He stood and reached out a hand. “For our honor - ”
Sarek grasped the Klingon’s hand and sensed no deceit in his words. “For truth,” he acquiesced.
“ - We will subvert the Empire.”
He followed Voq down the walkway, pausing to look down toward the slumbering community.
“If you had shown me Sanctuary just yesterday, I would have reported it to the Empire without hesitation.”
“Even if I told you that nearly a half of the population here are women and children?”
“Yes.”
Voq tilted his head. “I have not met someone as impassioned to a belief as you, yet also equally lacking empathy.”
Sarek slowly unfurled his fist and felt his face smooth into the familiar, comforting obscurity. He would need to meditate. From the platform, he could see T’Priah by the entrance doors, waiting.
Impassioned. “This is not my typical state. This is not I.”
Voq’s pointed teeth flashed in a grim smile. “On the contrary, this is your truest self. And the you that I trust.”
Notes:
I hope you guys are still here after 2 months of disappearing! Apologies, this chapter was logistically dense to write in terms of setting up the plot, and I wanted to ensure every detail was put in! It did not help that it was a hectic period which included getting covid, but I recovered well and had plenty of exciting (and good) life events happen these past 2 months. The good thing is the next chapter is like 95% ready to go and one of my favs. Hope you are all safe and well, and enjoying the story. I would love to hear what yall think :)
Chapter 10: old wounds
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I am pleased to announce that Grayson Industries will build our first off-world location on the planet of Vulcan. Pompeii Station will be focused on technological development for security and offences, estimated to be completed by the year 2220. This will result in not just the largest industrial expansion seen on the in the interstellar setting, but as well as increased job opportunities for Terrans and our valuable valets as well.
… Lastly, I express my sincerest gratitude to Ambassador Skon acting as our liaison between our two worlds to ensure such cooperation is possible…
Marcus Grayson
Commander of Starfleet
Equity shareholder of Graysons Industries
Statement released by Grayson Industries on Imperial date 2211.83.
… THE EMPIRE IS CALLING FOR VALUABLE RESEARCHERS… TO JOIN THE RANKS OF GRAYSON INDUSTRIES FOR THE GALAXY’S GREATEST SCIENTIFIC ENDEAVORS… SCAN THE PADD-LINK BELOW… TO COMPLETE YOUR APPLICATION TODAY… AWAIT THE BEGINNING OF UNPARALLELED BENEFITS, INCLUDING…
Holo-ad posted on the streets of Shi’Kahr, Vulcan on Imperial date 2219.12.
Sarek opened his eyes when he felt a lick of Sol’s dim morning rays against his cheekbone. Slipping through the crack of his carefully drawn curtains, it was the shred of warmth in his cold, dark quarters that alerted him it was time to end his nightly meditations. The bed beside him was empty.
It has been three months since his arrival to Terra. Now the apex of winter, each day feeling more unbearably cold than the last. Sarek had not yet completely acclimate himself to such a climate, and he did not think he ever would.
The sharp, heady smell of earthy spices reached his nose and grew in strength as he approached the kitchen. A familiar figure stood by the stove, and Sarek stood close behind her, skimming his knuckles along the curvature of her neck.
“You need not concern yourself with making tea every morning.”
T’Priah hardly reacted as she reached for the glassware in the cabinet above. The light from outside was dim from the constant overcast, but her tied pale hair shone like metal. “As a guest in this household, it is my duty to prepare first meal.”
“It is tediously repetitive.”
“As are your complaints.” T’Priah turned and scanned his face, unbothered by the closeness of their faces. “How were meditations?”
Sarek had spent more time raking through his memories, particularly those involving the presence of Minister T’Pol, his past colleagues, and even Skon. Anyone who had frequent contact or dealings with their Consul T’Pau and often relied on passing telepathic messages through indiscreet touch. In doing so, he has discovered many of these memories were – different.
Just as any organism decays, so do their memories, whether they be Terran or Klingon or Vulcan. The memories become blurrier the older and more irrelevant they are. It was a natural progression. But these were the opposite. The memories were sharp and vivid and bursting at the mind, its messages spilling over into other memories like an echo.
Serve the Consul.
Protect the network.
Protect the katras.
Self-terminate if torture is imminent.
Do not question the Consul’s orders.
Do not hide from Her.
How could Consul T’Pau have the capability – the power – to leave coercive messages in her subjects’ minds? Without even through direct contact herself? Creating viruses and using her subjects as hosts to continue the spread. Some messages so subliminal that they could be even passed from a parent to child when teaching them the secrets of Vulcan.
Neither T’Priah or him had the answers, and it did not matter if Sarek is to be stuck on Terra on a fool’s errand.
Stripping the tainted memories of their echo was a tedious process, but he had never felt calmer or at ease on Terra as he did now. He thought clearly, and his katra felt tamed – for the most part.
“Sufficient,” he answered.
T’Priah slipped away from his touch and poured tea into a cup before handing it to him.
“I must depart,” she told him. She was already fully dressed in her laboratory coat. “Should I attend to here after work?”
“That should suffice.”
He drank his tea as he watched her disappear from the front door without a backward glance.
The industrial-grade furnace sat in the center of the Burn Room and was about the size of large closet. It was able to reach up to 3000 degrees Celsius, which Sarek found rather extreme for books. The subjected items were typically stacked onto metal trays and then left to burn for 10 minutes. The ashes were tossed into a bin, where they remained until Sarek physically brought them to the waste floor for sensitive materials.
Cleaning the large oven was hardly a glamorous job, especially without any technology to assist. The sharp scent of vinegar soon pervaded through the room, and he doused the solution along the walls and racks of the furnace’s interior. Sarek had to discard of his sweater for concern of ruining it, though it meant he, now clad in only an undershirt, was left chilly in the metal tomb of a room.
Rolling up his sleeves, he used a flat metal scrape to rid of the hardened soot. It was a particularly large instrument, and it took him quite a bit of time to reach every centimeter of space. He was carefully methodical about his approach and did not slack at any point.
What would his father would think of him now – the heir of the S’chn T’gai clan on his knees, scrubbing away at soot and dirt?
Sarek leaned back, squatting on his ankles with elbows resting on his knees. He considered the significantly cleaner furnace with a hint of satisfaction. The silver metal gleamed and winked at him.
A dry voice appeared to the side. “Remarkable. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so enraptured by something as you do now.”
Sarek inwardly started. It was rare that he was ever snuck up on, especially by a Terran.
Leaning against the far table, Amanda was the epitome of patience. Her ankles were crossed, and her eyebrow was raised.
“I can say the same for yourself,” he answered, pointedly referencing her assessing gaze. Her eyes were shamelessly sweeping over his frame, and he was made quite aware that his white button-up shirt was stained with soot. He was dirty and unkempt, while she sat pristine.
“I have always found it quite satisfying in watching other people work in grime,” she said unapologetically. “There’s a sort of horror about it that makes it so entertaining.”
“Eik-veshtaya to'ovau kau - lu veshtaya ri glazhau goh na'kastorilaya t'kashan.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Wide experience increases wisdom, provided the experience is not sought purely for the stimulation of sensation.”
Amanda gave a short chuckle before rising and dismissing him for the day. She offered no explanation as they left the red door of Level Forty-Seven. She stepped on the transport first, as usual, to “Domus” – the western district by the ocean where the Patricians resided behind gilded golden gates (also protected by innumerable force fields and security, of course).
Sarek replayed this latest conversation in his mind as he exited the Weapons Sector. He combed through every word, tonal change, the tilt of her lips again and again. It had been a long time since they last had such an informal interaction.
Admittedly, he was certain it was intentional on both of their behalves.
It had been four weeks since Sarek’s introduction to Sanctuary, an underground bunker where hundreds of xenoforms hid and plotted against the Empire. It was also at this time he finally accepted that he held some sort of… fascination for Amanda Grayson that went beyond what was productive or appropriate. It was clearly detrimental to his mental stability. He hadn’t even recognized the signs until Amanda’s face appeared in his mind – unbiddenly and unwanted – when he was first inside T’Priah.
The day after, he half expected the to be arrested or, at the very least, to have been retired from his position in Level 47 after his and Amanda’s verbal altercation. But no guards came, and having no logical reason not to, he went to work with a steely, cold determination.
But so self-involved was he that Sarek neglected to consider Amanda had come to a similar decision.
While he could not speak for her motivation, she came off of the transporter with an equally cool disposition. There were no smiles, no darlings, no conversations. She did not engage in any manner of speaking unless it dealt with work or the tasks at hand.
Thus, they had since shared the space of Level 47 with painstakingly aloofness.
Sarek did not mind in the slightest, as it meant that he would maintain some sort of dignity. At work, he will only focus on his work. Direct interaction should be limited.
As for outside of work with no interaction… that should be quite acceptable.
Monitoring Amanda Grayson’s coming and goings outside of work was a necessity - for the use of the Coalition, of course, though he can admit he may be beginning to understand the term leisure activity. He could not precisely say what he found so intriguing about watching Amanda do such mundane activities. While the insurgency may currently not need to know that she bought her specific rose perfume from the perfumier on 35th street, or that she favors the chocolate mousse desert from the bakery by Lockland Park, Sarek neatly and carefully tucked away every bit of knowledge for later use.
Yet Amanda had returned straight home via transporter rather than use her private vehicle. This was standard for a Friday, and he can count on not seeing her in the city today.
His final destination was a handsome, centuries- old building with a brick-and-mortar exterior and above its heavy wooden doorway was a glossy black sign that read ALEXANDER’S BOOKSELLERS. With its incredibly narrow size, it was tucked almost covertly between a hair salon and a boutique. Outside on its window was a golden seal – a blossom with thick petals wrapped around a shell. While some stores contained a holosign on their windows of No Xenos Allowed, most including this establishment were not picky about who their credits came from.
This store was venerated by Amanda Grayson, who visited routinely every Thursday after work, the most recently being yesterday.
The front wooden door swung heavily on its axis against Sarek’s hand, and a bell chimed over his head. The smell of dust and dry, old paper met his nose. The air was stale and cool and unpleasant, but still comparably better than the cold outside.
Maxium’s pale-green eyes met his warily from behind the counter. He was the owner of the store. An old, whitened man shrunken with age. He was warm and pleasant to the Terrans, yet he offered only a reluctant nod.
Sarek did not mind – preferred it, really. It was better to be left alone than to have a Terran yapping as his ear for sales.
The inside of the store was dim and stuffy and lined with dark mahogany wood. Lightbulbs dangled across the ceiling, offering a weak source of illumination.
The first floor was of no interest to him. It comprised mostly of the ‘Fiction’ section, a word that he has learned equated ‘false’. All products of the Terran imagination. (He had read a few excerpts from books in the section and was disturbed by the unnerving detail that was written regarding fabricated people and scenarios, especially when it came to their emotions. What pleasure was he expected to gain from such obscene writing? What information was he supposed to learn?)
Under Maxium’s watchful eyes, Sarek ascended the staircase in the back. Its wooden steps creaked concerningly underneath his heavier weight.
The second level had vertical strips of windows that allowed natural light to stream in. Flecks of suspended dust were illuminated, and they danced away as he disturbed the still air. Sarek had not managed to visit this floor the last time he came, and his eyes skimmed across the labels that graced every shelf. Sarek immediately turned left and began to peruse the shelves with a painstakingly patient attentiveness. The books here carried the more miscellaneous yet informative genres. Cooking, Traveling, Philosophy, Business, Children’s, History.
What caught his attention, however, were the slivers of golden light slicing across the room. He moved straight to one of the iron-wrought windows that overlooked the street below.
Amongst the endless sea of dense, grey clouds was a rare parting, revealing a saturated blue sky and the bright Sol. There were even people who were exiting buildings just to experience Sol’s rare showing, though many wore solar shades. Kids ran onto the street, stretching out their small hands as though to catch starlight. “It burns,” one boy shrieked in a childish spectacle.
Sarek believed this was perhaps the first time he caught a glimpse of the day sky since being on Terra. Sol’s bright light made the Eternal City smoother. Almost pleasant.
He was content to observe. Maybe even bask in the rare warmth as well when his eyes caught on a figure who suddenly materialized at the transporter a couple stores away. They, unlike everyone else, were moving purposefully with their back facing away from the sun.
She carried an umbrella, of course, that blocked her face until she peered up at her beloved store. Sarek watched, hidden, as Amanda gracefully stepped up the stone steps to the front door.
The chime peeled across the entire building.
This was quite unexpected. He had seen her transport to her home in Domus. She should be home.
Sarek considered his course of plan as he slowly stalked towards the staircase, taking great care to step on the edges of the old floorboards. A set of voices drifted up like tendrils of smoke.
“Ah, what an unexpected surprise… Two days in a row… unprecedented blessing.”
Amanda’s low, smooth voice was more difficult to make out, and he lost track of certain words. He took another step forward.
“ – busy times… is ill…”
“A gift, surely…” boomed Maxium. “… even for that strapping Cato, yes?”
“I know just the thing! I can show you – ” Maxium’s steps dragged against the floor.
Amanda intercepted firmly, her silky voice clearer and closer. "I have something in mind already."
“Ah, of course, of course. You know your way around and do not need an old man like me in the way! But - ” Maxium's voice dropped even lower. "... to warn you, there is a... upstairs. I can request... they leave..."
“There is no need, old friend.”
It was illogical to hide – his presence here would not reveal anything questionable nor illegal. But Sarek still could not disregard the uncomfortable rise in emotion that rose as the steps grew louder. Was it dread? Discomfort? Or was it the opposite – anticipative? Regardless, the truth was that Sarek did not know she would be here, and same for she to him. To act on either dread or anticipation was inappropriate.
So, he stood with abated breath beside the doorway – in such a way that when Amanda finally stepped in, she didn’t even see his dark form looming. A remarkable feat, considering he was struck immediately by the scent of honey and ash that was carried by a brush of wind.
Amanda headed straight to the Children’s section, a small area in the opposite corner where the tall shelves gave way to low, splintered tables and dusty carpet. The click of her heels were pronounced against the old floorboards, and Sol’s light danced and warp around her moving figure. A mobile hung from the ceiling, and its small felt flowers – now muted in color with age – spun slowly above her head.
Under his watchful gaze, she raised her hand to brush her fingers against the books’ spines in an absentminded (a very strange word he recently learned from one of those fiction books) fashion.
It was so quiet. Fabric brushing against skin and skin skimming over paper. If Amanda just even glanced towards his direction, she would clearly see him standing only half-hidden behind a shelf, but her eyes did not stray from the colorful covers in front of her. She went through them with a careful attentiveness that was not unlike that she utilized in the Dark Room.
“It’s considered rude to not make your presence known.” Amanda’s eyes flickered straight to him. “Especially with someone who you’re well-acquainted.”
“I was unaware of that custom,” Sarek answered, still not moving. “And that we were considered well-acquainted.”
“Seeing each other nearly every day is not well-acquainted?”
“Recognizable, surely. But I cannot confirm with certainty that we are familiar and comfortable.”
“I suppose you have a point.” Amanda leaned forward and rested her elbows on top of the short shelf. She rested her chin on a fist and gave a cool smile. The red gem on her gloved finger casted a pink sliver on her cheek. “I, for example, did not know you frequented this store until I saw you walking in just moments ago.”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “Was it not impolite to make your presence known then?”
“This is making my presence known, as I was already inside the bakery across the street when I first caught your strapping form. I could recognize that stiff posture from anywhere.” She cocked her head. “Now, I’m quite curious – how did you find this place?”
Her suspicion was evident and well-placed, considering Sarek did indeed follow her multiple times to this location without her knowledge. Yet he wasn’t going to tell her.
“I have found walking after work to be an amenable past time,” he replied smoothly. “I have visited this location once prior out of curiosity – a byproduct, perhaps, of my time in Level Forty-Seven. I was unaware that such an obsolete venture existed for the public.”
Books were nonexistent in contemporary Vulcan, much less libraries. They were kept as artifacts that could only be found strictly in certain museums and governmental complexes.
“Bookstores are appreciated by only a few,” Amanda agreed. She suddenly wrinkled her nose. “Though an unfortunate number do enjoy the aesthetic of utilizing books only as décor.”
“How did you come to be familiar with this establishment?”
“It’s been a personal favorite of my family for decades. I come often, yet it’s very coincidental that our paths crossed in this precise bookstore at this precise time.” Amanda brushed flecks of dirt off the wooden surface, and glanced up at him though her eyelashes with a humorous tone. “Now, you don’t need to lurk back there. You needn’t fear. It’s not work hours, after all.”
Sarek moved forward slowly, until he stopped on the other side of the shelf. It stood between them as they regarded each other. As quick as it came, Sol’s light seemed to have already disappeared behind the thick cover of clouds. It casted them in a gloomy grey, but it was as though Amanda’s eyes had caught some of its warmth before it disappeared.
“Not coincidental,” he corrected finally. “There is no such thing as chance. There is, however, probability.”
“‘No such thing as chance’? Stars, I would’ve thought that you would’ve reveled in the concept – you do seem to have an interest in the concept of free will.”
Sarek’s eyes immediately flickered up to the ceiling, scanning across its dusty, wooden.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” assured Amanda, still smiling. “There are cameras, but dear Maxium is not particularly technologically-abled. Certainly, no microphones.”
Amanda straightened, her laced fingers resting between them. Her expression was suddenly serious. “Now, perhaps I may be of some assistance. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“The technology section.”
Amanda nodded graciously and gave a quick, sharp tap on the wood. “Come along.”
He trailed behind her with an acceptable three feet in between them as she led them to the eastern wall.
A thought suddenly entered his mind. “Were you following me?”
“I could ask you the same.”
He certainly was not going to admit it. Nor lie, for that matter. “I have no reason to follow you.”
Amanda snorted – a startingly inelegant sound – and abruptly stopped in her tracks. He took an excess of a step when she turned, and suddenly she was scarcely only a foot away.
“Oh, there are plenty of reasons,” she said. “I’m a very important person.”
Sarek was already preparing an adequate response to address her inflated, though correct statement when she knocked her knuckles the books beside them. “Here you are.”
He expected her to leave, but Amanda only leaned her shoulder against the bookshelf, waiting. After a moment’s pause, he oriented himself to face the tall shelf.
The selection was quite small, but it covered a broad array of matters ranging from satellite designs, history on starships, and a comprehensive comparison on different kinds of phasers. Some were written for those of a beginner and intermediate background while there were a few well-known textbooks that Sarek himself has only read in virtual forms.
His eyes diligently and steadily scanned over the titles without pause and with an unwavering inhuman precision. He attempted to disregard Amanda’s presence, which remained unchanged beside him.
“May I ask you a terribly personal question?”
“I would prefer not,” he answered as he lowered himself to the ground and smoothly balanced himself on his ankles. His sweeping scrutiny slowed as he found his topic of interest.
She unsurprisingly ignored that. “Did you always wanted to go into politics?”
His grey eyes flickered to hers briefly. Sarek felt a tinge of satisfaction at recognizing his improvement in reading Terran emotion – or at least in hers. Her pursed lips, the wrinkle of her nose. As if she smelled something curdling.
“You find that disagreeable.”
“Oh, I despise politicians,” she said unapologetically. “They’re only performative megalomaniacs who despises anyone’s voices but their own.”
“You would be suitable in politics.”
“You wound me.” She tilted her head. “Why do you want to be the Ambassador of Vulcan?”
“I was a diplomatic envoy prior to my arrival on Terra.” He paused for a fraction of a second when Amanda’s skirt rustled by his ear, before prying a book loose from the shelf and flipping it open. “It is expected that I supersede my father and become the Vulcan Ambassador.”
“That is shockingly ambitious for a Vulcan, but it fails to answer my question.”
“I am not driven by ambition. My experiences and skillset are optimum for the position, and it is thus expected and logical.”
“Yet you were sent to be a lowly assistant because…”
“I act on behalf of Consul T’Pau’s orders,” he recited, as a loyal servant to the Empire would. “I trust she is acting in accordance with the Empire’s best interest.”
“Or her own interests.”
He did not want to land on her outstretched hand, but – “Clarify.”
“If I was her, I would be careful about letting a young, ambitious – no matter how much you deny it – male from a prominent family having a seat beside me. Kill him, maybe, but that may start an internal conflict given his name. No, it’s much cleaner to simply send him away to the Heavenly World of the Empire.”
How was it that this she so easily questioned – correctly, for that matter - T’Pau’s motives? A Vulcan who she never even met, when it took him a lifetime to even suspect?
Sarek rose to his feet, and he confessed he took a minute pleasure at Amanda having to crane her head up to meet his gaze. She did not step away and, stubbornly, neither did he.
“Is it due to Terran disposition that you are exceedingly distrustful?”
Her closed smile dropped. She drew herself up, adjusting her gloves.
“Personally, I consider my gracious advice as an act of generosity.” Her mouth tightened. “But oh, don’t listen to a silly, paranoid Terran. It’s not as if paranoia hasn’t treated us well these past couple of centuries.”
Amanda was clearly displeased, and suddenly, their situation felt precarious. As though one misstep could send them back to how it was before – silent and still. Sarek did not know why he found this so unappealing. He preferred the quiet. The solitude. Always had. And yet…
“I did not mean to offend.”
“You didn’t.”
The bell from downstairs rung. Sarek somewhat cautiously continued, “To answer your prior question, before I turned to diplomacy, I had participated and led extensive research for the development of an engine capable of Warp 4.”
“An astrophysicist. Yet you’ve never flown in a starship prior to coming to Terra?”
“Correct.”
“Darling, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” It was the first time she called him that in weeks.
“I misunderstand.”
She gave a wry smile. Her voice was soft like velvet. “A young Sarek looking up at the stars and imagining flight. Spurred on by curiosity. All scientists are romantics – dreaming of the unknown.”
Despite his strides in reading emotion, this was one of those moments when Sarek sincerely did not understand her way of thinking.
“Have you always wanted to be a bookkeeper?”
“I wanted to be many things – an artist, a curator, a historian. Level Forty-Seven simply allowed me to be all three.”
Sarek did agree that this role suited Amanda well. Her whole lifestyle did. The pleasure she derived from her choice of occupation, from shopping among bakeries and bookstores and boutiques, and returning to whatever undoubtedly wealthy home she resided in with her token Terran husband. Amanda carried herself with an assured contentment that he had yet to see anywhere else, even within himself. By all measures, she was set for a lifetime of satisfaction – a very rare privilege in this universe.
Amanda raised an eyebrow, signaling that he perhaps had stared at her for a moment longer than appropriate. But she only held out her hand. “Now, what is it you came all the way out here for?”
He wordlessly placed it in her palm.
Her eyes swept across the title, and a delighted laugh slipped through her lips. Amanda shook her head and gave it back, as the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs reached them. “You are a fascinating individual, Sarek.”
Sarek ignored the novel thrill of hearing his name. “That is unintentional.”
Acutely aware that they were no longer alone, Sarek stepped back – and in the direction of the staircase.
After a pause, Sarek nodded formally at Amanda.
She smiled, raised a gloved hand, and waggled her fingers.
By the time he reached the front counter, he had sobered. It had been so long since he had a proper conversation with Amanda. So long since he had felt her slippery, conspiratorial way of thought. He nearly forgotten how she would pull on him like a thread, wounding him up and up before suddenly cutting the line, leaving him slack and open. She made him divulge things, desire to do so, and she pieced together the bits on him just as she bound pages of a book.
He rang the bell on the counter, and rang again. When Maxium still did not appear, he was about to turn around to look when a feeble knocking came from behind the counter.
Sarek stepped around and took in the sight.
The elder Terran let out a violent cough. A bright, shocking poppy-red spilling from its mouth. He laid on the ground, blood pooling around him from the knife in its chest. A weak hand stretched out to Sarek, as if in condemnation.
“Help,” Maxium wheezed.
Sarek was sprinting up the stairs before his next breath finished.
A shout emitted from above. And then a crash.
Just as he reached the top, red lit the halls, and he heard the soft zing of a phaser. He smelled the burning of flesh.
His mind quickened, and he took note of several things at once – the tipped over bookshelf. The red tinted light forming dizzying, slanted lines across the room. The flashing of Amanda’s eyes when she met Sarek’s from across the room. The snarl on her face. The mobile that suddenly twirled disjointedly when the male strode to Amanda, his back towards Sarek.
“ – pillaged my world of our katras,” the male cried. Sarek knew instantly who he was. “Killed my brothers and sisters! I have to kill you, too - She told me to.”
Cornered to the wall, Amanda shot once at Valkh’s abdomen, a wound that would be otherwise debilitating for any other species. But Valkh continued, grabbing her neck and slamming her back into the window. So hard that the red glass splintered from where the base of her skull collided like a halo.
Not even a whimper escaped, as though the air had been knocked from her lungs. She crumpled, her back arching, as though a claw had seized her spine and pulled. Her phaser fell beside her.
Valkh stood heavily on his left leg with green blood dripping down from his torso. His knife slashed downwards.
Sarek cannot honestly claim that instinct simply took over his body. He cannot say that his decisions will be made without thought or without reservation. He cannot even claim that yamareen had entered his system, thus forcing him to succumb to his more primal self.
No. To do so would be to lie. Because Sarek’s mind never felt so clear as it did now. Every act was decisive and filled with intent, just as a Vulcan’s should be.
Sarek moved so quick that he was a blur, but he knew he was simply too far. Physics was the truest thing in this universe.
If it landed as intended, the knife would have stabbed her chest – perhaps even her heart. But Amanda had suddenly rolled over onto her back. Her cry was sharp yet stilted, as she swallowed it down in rattling gasps. It grated Sarek’s up his spine.
Valkh ripped it out in a clean, swift motion, sending splatters of blood across the floor – and on Sarek.
The Vulcan whirled just as Sarek reached him. His blade missed him by millimeters as Sarek leaned to the side.
“You don’t know what that leech has taken from us. And you – you helped her. You helped Her too." He shook his head heavily. He was young, Sarek realized. Just on the cusp of adulthood. "They will all eat at you until there's nothing left." His eyes turned glazy and his words more into mutterings. "I'll - I'll help you. I'll help you find peace. Prosperity."
There was something strangely soft in his eyes - the look of someone who came up with an idea that would solve all ailments. An exhilaration. A hunger. T’Priah had called Valkh a kai’tafar lafot, one who lacked the mental control of a typical Vulcan, and it showed by how Valkh’s face warped in the high of power.
But this was only a boy, and he knew nothing of power.
Valkh lunged.
In a single, ruthless motion, Sarek grasped Valkh’s neck and slammed his head into the bookshelf. He did not hold back – not in the slightest.
A sickening crunch of skull splitting – a sound Sarek was too familiar with – echoed. The body fell heavily to the ground. Veridian blood stained the doorway, as well as pooled in between the cracks of wooden floors.
It only took seconds for Skon to fall limply by Sarek’s feet – a burning hole through the center of his forehead. Green blood oozed out and crept closer to his shoes. His father –
Sarek directed his gaze down on Amanda.
Her leg jerked violently, smearing her blood all over the once immaculate white rug. The wound oozed with the red, thick fluid, which slowly pooled around her. The large volume suggested that her femoral artery was pierced, a life-threatening wound for Terrans and Vulcans alike.
But when he took a step towards her, her eyes flew open.
He narrowly avoided the blaster shot she took with the phaser she somehow obtained again. “Amanda.”
Her aim was unsurprisingly poor given the violent tremors of her arm. He caught her wrist and slammed it down . Her phaser clattered to the floor and he shoved it away.
She was undergoing a severe muscle attack, much like one month prior. But her leg wound was of immediate concern. She could die in minutes if he didn’t staunch its flow.
Sarek squatted down as he pulled off his coat. He pressed down on her bucking knee with a brutal, firm force until it stilled and tightly wrapped the coat sleeve an inch above the thigh. Her hot, thick blood quickly coated his hands.
Nonetheless, there was less blood than he expected, even for a woman of her stature. She surely required medical attention, but it seemed less likely that her artery was nicked.
A stilted groan sent his attention back to her face. Her arm flew out, shaking. Pointing towards her purse.
He immediately grabbed it and rifled through its contents. His fingers wrapped around the cool, cylindrical container. Beside it was a thin surgical needle.
Dantrium, the label read. Sodium salt. For intravenous arm injection. Recommended dose: 4 milliliters
He stabbed the needle through the vial’s soft padded lid. His hands were steady as he suctioned up precisely 4 milliliters.
Sarek held her arm down, but her movements were still too sudden, too violent. It would risk snapping the needle or bringing further harm to her.
So he forcefully pinned her shoulder down with his knee and gripped her wrist with one arm so forcefully that he felt her delicate bones shift beneath. She jerked in pain, but he swiftly stuck the needle in her bicep and pressed down the top.
Amanda let out a moan. Not of pain, he felt, but one of shuddering relief.
She deflated underneath him. Her stiff muscles twitched before becoming pliant and still. Her breathing, though ragged and exhausted, was no longer forced. Sarek shifted, moving his knees on either side of her torso as he bent his head inches over hers and inspected.
Her head had lulled to the side, and he thought her unconscious until he gingerly brushed her fingertips against her pale cheek and pushed her hair aside. Her eyes were fluttering shut, but she gave a soft, irritated huff. Her gloved hand suddenly knocked against his cheek at a futile attempt at pushing him away.
“You are quite singular,” he told her as he moved off. “Pushing away assistance even now on the brink of death.”
Then, with a clarity that Skon would have been proud of, Sarek considered the logic of letting Amanda Grayson die.
Let her bleed out, which would not take long. He could loosen the binding that he had created. She was exhausted; her muscles still released faint tremors, and she was too tired to even speak. Or he could even inject just enough of the dantrium so that even the muscle of her heart
Her death would undoubtedly be beneficial. He would succeed in getting rid of an asset to the Empire. Amanda knew far too much about xenoforms’ secrets than they were comfortable with. Her knowledge about Vulcan, for example, has shown to be of concern and seemed to be increasing with every day. At this rate, especially with Valkh’s outburst, Sarek had to consider the possibility that the secret of katras and telepathy were at risk. Already, she had stumbled upon some hints of them, and she only needed to connect the pieces together. Her eventual death, to many, seemed necessary…
But no, he thought, as he gathered into his arms and stood.
There were many logical reasons for why her death would be problematic, but in that instance, he only thought of one - because her death would be a waste.
It would be a grievous thing for her heartbeat to go. The anchor for the katra she possessed – the rare fire and life that filled her eyes, her words, and her being – would go as well.
And Sarek simply could not accept that. Not yet, at least.
He carried her away from the blood-stained room, that was now a garish display of clashing red and green, and down the creaking stairwell. He strode past the now-still body of Maxium of Alexander’s Bookshop and onto the streets. Terrans stared at him, and he knew it was only moments before they overcame their shock.
The movement seemed to jar Amanda back into some sliver of consciousness. Her head, which rested against his shoulder, shifted, and she suddenly began to squirm. Her fists pushed against his chest, and her legs began to kick out.
It was hardly enough for him to drop her, though he was increasingly becoming sorely tempted. Without a single blink nor twitch, Sarek tightened his grip on her wounded leg, thus rewarding him her pained whine and stilling body.
So utterly ungrateful.
Sarek stepped on the transporter’s platform.
“Emergency medical transport.”
“Transport to Sato’s General Hospital initiating.”
It all happened very quickly. One moment they were both simultaneously at the sidewalk and the hospital – their particles shifting and vibrating as they pieced together. It was as though a hazy mesh of light rippled in his vision, and he could barely discern the silhouettes of medical workers that awaited.
He heard shouting that echoed through the phasing, as he heard both the shouting and the quiet of the white halls.
This all occurred within a fraction of a second. As soon as it was over, Amanda was forced out of his arms. It was damning he supposed, arriving with a nearly dead Terran in his arms.
The soldiers were on him in seconds. Pain blossomed in his abdomen, and he staggered to his knees. They pulled back his arms. He felt the heavy, cold weight of shackles around his wrists.
“Under Emperor Sato’s sun-lit sword, you are pronounced guilty of your crimes and will be punished accordingly. May his benevolence shine on you and grant you a merciful end.”
Notes:
Oooo some tension. Thank you all for your comments - I love hearing your thoughts and knowing there's people out there still! Let me know also if you guys have any questions or confusions. I realize that my writing can be a bit confusing sometimes, even to me!
Which brings me to a ~grievous~ error I noticed a few days ago. This young Valkh (RIP) is NOT related to the character that appears only in Chapter 1. I called both of them Valkh but I changed the name of chapter 1's character to Valek for clarity sake. Again, these two are unrelated so sorry if there was any confusion!
Chapter 11: refractory period
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
… requesting new starships to supplant the ones valiantly sacrificed in the name of our glorious Great Expansion. Starfleet requires: 13 Tormentor-class starships with warp 12 capabilities, type IV weapons ray (including VN47 photon torpedoes, XI01 particle beams, …)
Urgent request transmitted through private subspace communications to Archers Shipbuilding Corporation and Grayson Industries, Imperial date 2234.1201.
Four hours, two minutes, 36 seconds.
That was how long it took for Amanda Grayson to alert the Empire that Sarek was not the perpetrator of her attack. (Assuming it was her to have sent the order and that she was even alive. She did lose a significant amount of blood…)
It was also the amount of time that Sarek had spent familiarizing himself with the Alcatraz Penitentiary and their state-of-the-art agonizer cells.
Each cell contained a synaptic scanner that calibrated each individual for the optimum, long-lasting pain one could endure without passing out. It applied a certain amount of voltage to one nerve cluster until it overloaded and reached its refractory state, the point at which the neurons are incapable of being further stimulated in allowance for recovery. Then, the scanner would seek another cluster to assault, thus ensuring constant stimulation. Even more disorienting was the neural blocker on the back of his neck that rendered his vision black.
It was elegant in its simplicity, Sarek will admit that.
Even well-trained Vulcans such as he - who can retreat to the refuge of their minds - cannot help but bend down to the brute of the design. Their ability to sever the mind from bodily sensations does not negate the fact that the body itself feels great, excruciating pain and responds as such.
At the thirty-sixth second, the agonizer's searing touch disappeared. Sarek’s legs gave out from underneath him. That was acceptable, considering his nerves were overwhelmed by the electrical stimulation that continued even when free from the agonizer’s claws. He performed a quick analysis of his systems - his throat was inflamed, scratchy, and sore; he could recall his screaming with the distance of a bystander. His limbs were wracked with waves of tremors, and he could only involuntarily endure it as outsider to his body. Is this what Amanda experiences during her own episodes?
“Your session has been suspended.”
With his vision not yet restored, Sarek could not see the woman with the steady voice (he decided that she did not speak with the neutrality of a Vulcan but instead with a cruel coldness). The wall on which he leaned against suddenly disappeared, and he gracelessly fell on his face.
A hard kick into his ribs sent the air out of his lungs. “Up.”
After multiple attempts of standing and failing, Sarek was all but dragged up by a firm hand around his bicep. This Terran soldier had heavy footsteps suggesting of a broad and stocky figure, which must have served them well if they were able to easily and singly carry a grown Vulcan male. Another time, Sarek might have been rather interested in observing their further capabilities, but now Sarek felt rather impatient to leave.
Soon, Sarek was able to stumble along until eventually he was able to walk blindly on leadened feet. The familiar hum of a shuttle engine roared in his ears. He could taste salt in the air.
“Are we by the ocean?” Sarek inquired, his voice raspy. It was an illogical, unnecessary query, but he supposed his mind was feeling a bit - raw, given the circumstances.
A hand knocked against his shoulder, and Sarek tipped onto the floor heavily. He barely caught himself. Beneath his palms was the cool smoothness of metal. It vibrated beneath him, and soon the sensation of weightlessness was felt in his stomach.
By the time the aircraft settled down and world around him stilled, 6.3 minutes had passed. Heavy sets of footsteps met his ears, and Sarek tensed as they approached. In quick, forceful motions, they yanked him up, released the neural blocker from his neck and the cuffs from his wrists, and pushed him off the craft.
“Visitor.”
The return of his vision occurred brutally fast, not unlike the rush of vertigo that came from a rapid change in gravity. His field of view was blurry, and he did not know if that was due to after effects of prolonged neural blocker use or agonizer use. Regardless, Sarek brought his attention up towards the modulated voice and made out four humanoid shapes. All figures of wine-red with shimmering red sashes across their torso, marking them as part of the Eternal Guards.
As his sight cleared, Sarek quickly discerned that he was thousands of feet above ground.
Sato General Hospital was four tendrils that spiraled around one another, growing and reaching towards the cloud-covered sun. Sky bridges crisscrossed and connected the helical structure like that of a DNA strand. It lived in the sky – higher than any building within the City - as much as it did the ground, thus offering quick and easy access to any shuttlecraft in Terra’s orbit. Made of the black tinted glass Terran eyes favored, it was a dark beacon that pierced against the ever-grey clouds. Landing pads – such as the one he stood now – frequently peeled out from the stem like leaves whenever a shuttlecraft approached.
A hospital. Not a morgue.
Following his guards, Sarek passed through the entrance gate into the stalk of the hospital. The ground beneath his feet curved ninety degrees, and he felt the shift as artificial gravity keeping him rooted along the walls of the stem. Should he choose to, he could walk uninterrupted along the vertical length of the stem, all the way to the ground.
The ceiling of the main hall was a long stretch of glass revealing the whole Eternal City sprawled out beneath them – only rotated. Despite Sarek’s entourage, hardly anyone stared at him as they led him down (up?) the seemingly endless hall toward the sky. Everyone, whether staff or patient, moved quickly and did not idle. The only people who did hover were soldiers, who seemed to be stationed in every corner. Their eyes followed everybody, searching for any hint of variance. Some patient rooms had soldiers or private guards stationed outside the door – a common practice even on Vulcan. One cannot trust their own medic. Anyone can be bribed.
While the public domain was bustling, rushed, and tense, the private domain was quiet and sparse. Eventually, they approached a door that had half a dozen soldiers stationed outside, each donning a red sash. The leading officer in front of Sarek stopped in front of the door and gave two sharp knocks.
“The visitor has arrived.”
Sarek had spent the walk attempting to restore the stability of his mind, but he found that his thoughts still slipped away more easily - had more give. Thoughts that fizzled out into smoke. With a hint of resignation, Sarek entered the room.
“ – two more rounds of tissue regeneration is required. A skull injury and concussion is not to be taken lightly - ”
“Oh, do not patronize me, you senile bat - ”
“Amanda.”
The loud conversation within abruptly cut off, as three sets of eyes fell onto him.
“There he is,” exclaimed Cato. “The Vulcan of the hour.”
The Praetor of the Eternal Guards stood by the hospital bed. His white smile (Sarek forgot how unsettling a Terran’s bared teeth was. He had gotten too acquainted with Amanda’s) bright in contrast to the heated, obviously displeased gazes of the other two - one being an older woman with skin tight like rubber and slate-grey hair. What was truly interesting about her, however, was the golden Rod of Asclepius pinned onto her chest. Sarek had never met an Emperor’s Medic before.
The last was of course Amanda. She was propped up on the bed with blankets covering her lap. Despite the dim (even by Terran standards) light of the room, her hospital gown’s white fabric and boxy shape seemed to devour her already pale form of any color. Her eyes were near black from the contrast. However, besides her drawn appearance and hair in more disarray than he's ever seen, there was no sign of injury or blood – a marked improvement from when he last saw he – and a tightness in his chest lessened (surely, this must be an after-effect of the agonizer). Her hands were naked.
As for her disposition, Amanda appeared nothing short of displeased, if not outright angry. Not at him (for once), but rather at the medic.
Cato dismissed the guards. “My deepest apologies for how long it took to get you back – it’s hardly befitting for one who did such a heroic deed. Of course, when Amanda told me what had happened, she was still delirious on drugs. I could hardly believe her when she said you saved her instead of did this to her – you understand of course - but then the security footage came in. I do hope my men treated you well.”
It was fascinating to witness the mercuriality of Terrans. When Sarek first met the praetor, Cato had all but ignored his presence.
“They treated me honorably.” Which would have sounded convincing if it were not for the obvious hoarseness in Sarek’s voice or his slow gait forward. Still he stood tall, when he answered in his usual gravitas, “I come to serve, Praetor.”
“Naturally,” said Cato, teeth still amiably bared. “Now - what is it that you want?”
A bath. A private room for meditations. Answers to why Valkh had suddenly appeared deranged and homicidal, perhaps. But these did not seem to be the appropriate answers for such a vague question, given the context of the circumstance. “I misunderstand. I was taken here.”
Amanda scoffed while Cato shook his head. “As a reward for saving my wife. That deed does not go by without recognition.”
“Your offer is enough of a reward, Praetor. I assure you that I have little wants or desires.”
Cato’s chuckle was short. Sarek mused on whether this was one of those diplomatic moments where he was supposed to entertain the Terran, smother them in needless gratitude and accept rather than reject. “You – you and your people are so fascinating. But I insist. People need to know that there are rewards for these things, these acts of common decency. What do you think, dear?”
Before Amanda could even open her mouth, Cato raised a hand. Sarek noted that the Terran’s knuckles were blossomed red, and Sarek could only speculate what responsibilities a praetor held in their day-to-day. “How about this – Amanda and I have been chosen by the City’s Forum to host this year’s celebration – ”
Amanda straightened abruptly, lifting her head from her pillow. “Dear – ”
“- for Saturnalia, and you will be our Honorable Guest.”
“That is hardly necessary,” Amanda sharply cut in. “It is a big position, and we don’t want to spoil the atmosphere with such sordid reminders hanging over our heads.”
“I would not want to offend your wife’s – ” Sarek paused, his eyes falling impassively on Amanda, who only deepened her glare. “– delicate sensibilities.”
Cato waved his hand. “Saturnalia is a festival of liberties and hospitium - a time for us to open our gates and forego societal titles with our Patrician neighbors and public citizens. Just as the Romans did in the Golden days when they would share their tables with slaves. In what other way can we show our festive spirit as well as generosity than rewarding this young man - ” As if Sarek was not over twice his age “ - Not to mention, I am quite curious to learn more about the son of the dead, traitorous Vulcan Ambassador.”
At the mention of his father, Sarek nearly paused - which was as good as flinching. With every bit of learned diplomacy, Sarek graciously said, “And I about your great rise to praetorship at such a young age – ”
“Stars,” Sarek heard Amanda mutter under her breath.
“- thus, I would be honored to accept.”
“Excellent. I will have my men send over the details.”
The medic intercepted, her surprisingly melodious voice stern. “Oh, yes, I do love talks of festivities but until then, let us get back to the matter at hand. Mrs. Grayson, you cannot be discharged for home. You will stay here where we can monitor your concussion and finish healing of your skull fracture, and that is final.”
“In case you have failed to notice,” said Amanda with a cool derision that even a Vulcan would recognize, “The fracture is now closed, and I feel completely fine - ”
“If the patient continues to be noncompliant, then some sedation will go a long way. Don’t you, agree, Praetor?”
Suddenly, the door opened. A guard entered and said, “Praetor Caelus, Admiral Grayson is expecting you.”
Caelus. God of the skies and heavens, embodied by the sign of an eagle. Not for the first time, Sarek deplored the paranoia of Terrans and the subsequent inaccessibility of information regarding the histories of citizens such as Amanda Grayson and Cato Caelus. It was atypical for a citizen to carry the name of an Old God, to whom they will devote their honor and victories to. It signified one of two things: either Cato had renounced his family name (and thus any associated inheritance or influence), or he was born an orphan – a circumstance of his birth rather than a choice.
The Praetor inclined his head. “Acknowledged. Inform him I’ll be departing now.”
“Cato.”
Cato pressed his lips to the back his wife's hand. “I will see you tonight, dear.” He turned to the medic with his white smile strung on his face. “Sedation will be fine. You know how the wives can be.”
The beeping from the heart monitor became more rapid (how disquieting it must be for a Terran to perpetually lack jurisdiction on one’s own body), though no words left from Amanda's tight mouth.
The medic typed in her PADD. “Should be ten minutes, and you’ll slip on away. Sleep tight, Domina Grayson.” Sarek shifted through recollections of his Terran studies, which took more effort than usual. A moniker of respect, Domina (Dominus for males) was an Imperial title that translated to ‘master’ or ‘sir’. However, it was somewhat formal, if not outdated, and the silkiness of the medic’s smile seemed to suggest anything but respect.
Amanda’s dark eyes were unreadable as her husband kissed her forehead. Sarek stiffened when Cato clamped a strong hand on his shoulder in passing as he and the medic strode out of the room, leaving Sarek and Amanda to regard one another.
After a moment, she said, “You look disgusting.”
His once-white shirt was indeed covered in now-dry stains of ruddy crimson and dull green. An involuntary tremor shook up his shoulder, inconveniently.
Sarek stepped forward and clasped his hands behind his back, firmly yet fluidly, as though he was not still experiencing sensory overload. “Acceptable given the circumstances.”
He finally brought his attention to the screen the hung above her headboard. A live scan of her body with vital signs was on display, and he could see her bones and organs in intimate detail. It was strange to observe how much her form varied to his. Her heart – strangely placed by her breast – rhythmically pulsed with a soft beeping to mimic her heart rate. At baseline, the Terran heart beat faster compared to a Vulcan’s, and Amanda's in her present agitation was even more tachycardic.
A nauseatingly sweet stench infiltrated his senses - so strong that he was uncertain how he did not notice it before, and his attention was brought to a bouquet of poppies at her bedside table. The vase sat at the very edge, as though pushed away from Amanda as far as possible.
“You have recovered from your recent injuries well, I presume.”
Her response was light and quick like an edge of a knife. “More so than the boy, certainly.”
In the cells of Alcatraz Penitentiary – more specifically, in the recesses of his mind where he hid – Sarek had time to dissect the attack at Alexander’s Booksellers. More specifically, reflect on what Valkh had said to him and her and contemplate a few questions. Including but not limited to - how alert was Amanda during attack? Did she remember his words?
I have to kill you - She told me to. You don’t know what that leech has taken from us. And you helped her.
Sarek had focused on two things during his analysis:
- Someone had wanted Amanda Grayson dead and used an uncontrollable projectile in the form of Valkh to do so.
- Valkh recognized Sarek. Knew who he was, despite Sarek never having met him in person.
Following the comforting cascade of logic, Sarek could only assume that the perpetrator of #1 was T’Priah of the Insurgency… or T’Pau, Consul of Vulcan. Both could have reason for wanting her dead (though Sarek did not believe Amanda posed that large of a concern for the Consul of Vulcan to intercede, but the consul did send Sarek on this assignment in the first place), and both did know Sarek was assigned to her.
(He could not help but also wonder if the timing was coincidental – if Valkh had succeeded, the cameras would have caught Valkh and Sarek entering and leaving together. Two Vulcans, both having worked under Amanda at some point, around Amanda’s death would not have been seen as coincidental, and Sarek would likely have been sentenced for the rest of his life in an agonizer if not outright executed.)
What conclusion, if any, did Amanda come to in her own dissection of the situation? Any time he tried to answer this, including now, his stream of thought dissipated and sparked out.
Her dark eyes were still and wide. He noted that her pupils were blown wide – a consequence of a concussion, perhaps - when she continued, “And what a foolish boy he was, that Valkh.”
“Reckless,” Sarek agreed. His hand flexed behind his back. He could still feel the exhilarating high that had coursed through the boy’s blood. The hunger for blood was as tangible as was the boy’s skull in his hands. Now that he has had a taste of it he found himself desiring for more. All those weeks of meditations with T’Priah, undone. It was utterly distracting – and inconvenient. Vulcans had evolved millenia to get to the point where they are now. He can control his breathing and his heart rate decisively, just as one raises a hand. He can regulate his body temperature to the tenth of a Celsius and dilate his pupil by a micrometer. But when it comes to yamareen, to bloodlust, Vulcans were as lacking in control as humans.
“I would never raise my child to be as stupid."
A sudden question shot through his mind, sending a sharp cascade of pain down his arm. “Do you have a child?”
The corners of Amanda's lips twitched upward. He recognized he lapsed. An intrusive question spurred on by intrusive, obvious urge. Nonetheless, he inwardly relaxed when she answered, “Of course not.”
“I will say that Valkh is unlike any Vulcan I ever met,” Sarek said. “His clear lack of control would have made him an outsider on my world. He would have even been put to death for such an aberration.”
“Is that why you killed him?”
It was strangely relieving to see that even after a brush with death Amanda still spoke with the cutting capriciousness of a swinging axe. A silent, sweet rise followed by a sudden and deadly slash downward followed, so quick a change in direction that one could scarcely finish their breadth before realizing their head was gone.
“If I killed solely on the count of one being an aberration, there would be little to none left of us.”
She gave one of those bursting Terran laughs that rang in the air. He expected her to delve deeper for a true answer, but she instead found other nerve clusters to overload. “Did you speak the truth when you said to not have known Valkh? That he would be attempting to kill me today?”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “You watched my interrogation.”
“Yes.” Yes, I watched you be tortured and writhe on the ground, she said but did not say.
“I had answered truthfully. If you truly had believed otherwise, I would not be here.”
She hummed, slowly smoothing out the blanket over her lap with her eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Now perhaps Valkh acted on madness alone, as you implied. But you see, I had first found the coordinates for our little outing last month in one of his personal items, and there we had found four of his accomplices. It would be imprudent to so quickly disregard that there may be more elsewhere. Do you disagree?”
“No,” he relented because her reasoning was sound, and to object was to cast doubt on his sincerity. “A further investigation would be logical.”
Sarek should – needed – to deflect from the current topic at hand, even if temporarily. Let time ravage away what she already only vaguely recalls. Let her forget that Valkh ever uttered the word katras and Surak knows what else he said before Sarek had reached them.
So he directed the conversation towards something that he knew would be equally uncomfortable for her to address. He brought his attention to her health screen.
His eyes lingered on her lower spine, where sections of her vertebrae fluctuated from orange to red as though a fire was catching inside her. He remarked, “Spinal cord injury. Incomplete. Located in the thoracic, mid-part of the spine, specifically vertebrae’s 9 and 10. Resulting in lingering nerve damage characterized by inflammation, discomfort, and muscle spasms.”
Amanda kept her lax tone, but there was a tightness around her mouth that notified him he succeeded. “Discomfort is an understatement. And it’s vertebrae 9, 10, and 11, mind you.”
“It must be an old injury.”
“Only from 14 years ago.”
“They have not made advances in your healing since?”
“Well, darling, it’s quite hard to make a complete recovery when your spinal cord was completely severed by shrapnel. I’m lucky to be able to even walk, much less be alive! Or at least, so I’ve been told.”
All the variables suddenly fell into the equation of Amanda’s life – Amanda rarely participating in physical labor (though he was certain that was also due to her conceited nature). Her seizing any time she did. The burn marks he had seen on her palm and bicep. The Dantrium drug that she carries with her at all times, and her night trips to the backlog of the Underground to acquire it. All due to a disability that she acquired at eleven years of age - the circumstances of which must be sensitive knowledge unavailable to the public.
He recalled the holophoto Minister T’Pol had shown him the day he was sent off to Terra. The young girl with her father’s eyes and mother’s smile. While Sarek was not fluent in nonverbal Terran cues, Rosalyn Cochrane did not show any signs of strain. That must have been mere months prior to this event.
It has been four minutes since the nurse had administered the sedatives. A minute since Amanda’s eyes had appeared heavier, more distant. How long would it take for her tongue to loosen?
“Shrapnel?”
Amanda spread her hands in an unfamiliar manner – part humorous and part regretful. Sarek’s eyes followed the movement. Caught a glimpse of the small, satiny pink patch of skin on the meat of her palm. Could not look away. “One day, my dear mother tells me we are going on a trip and we get in a hovercraft. We’re thousands of feet high in the sky when she decides to go full impulse back towards the ground with me and her still inside. Charming woman.
“I don’t recall much of what else happened prior the crash. But I remember vividly waking up in the wreckage with a shard of metal in my back and burning fuel dripping onto my skin. It felt like days before help came. This was in Vulcan, you know.” She tilted her head. “Or maybe you didn’t. It was back when our satellite location there first opened. Stars, I hated how hot it was.”
If the crash took place on Vulcan as Amanda said, news would have broken fast among the Vulcan population. Silek (against Sarek’s demands - and look what has happened to Silek because of it) had enlisted in their research division and had not mentioned such a thing to him.
“Are you being truthful?”
Her answering smile was soft, and it was like a break in the clouds. “Of course not.”
Abruptly, she sobered. Fatigue – or the sedatives – crept into her voice. “Oh, darling," she exhaled. "You should not go to Saturnalia.”
“You would have me deny the Praetor’s request?”
“Never,” she said. “A xeno refusing to be the Honored Guest is unheard of and borderline blasphemy. The fact you don’t even know the gravity of this reveals how completely out of your depth you’ll be.”
“On the contrary, I believe this would be a very immersive opportunity to partake in Terran culture.”
“This is not some sort of quaint obligation. There will be hundreds – Patricians and plebians - in my family’s villa, and holovids of the event will be streaming for all of our Heavenly World and beyond to see. Your own delicate sensibilities will be greatly offended, I promise you that.”
“I find your apparent concern ingenuine.”
“I’m offended - you really think me so cold-blooded?”
“Simply that you are likely even more not fond of me entering your home. However, if your concern on my behalf is sincere, I assure you it is misplaced. Saturnalia is an Imperial holiday that is honored in Vulcan and celebrated by the soldiers stationed there. I am not completely ignorant of what takes place during celebrations.” Sarek did not mention that on Vulcan there was no function of Honored Guest that he was familiar with.
Amanda gave a delicate shrug. “So be it. It’s your funeral.”
Before he could decide if her choice of words was colorful Terran imagery or a sincere warning, she then lifted a heavy hand onto her arm rest’s panel. The doors glided open and the Eternal Guards spilled in. It was the nine minute mark.
“Take him,” Amanda ordered, and then to Sarek, “Forgive me, but I do so like to be sedated with as minimal threats around me as possible.”
There were only certain circumstances that Sarek experienced true, physical fatigue.
Sex was one. Torture, it seems, was another.
Yet when he finally reached his quarters, he was confronted by the fact that rest would have to wait. T’Priah stood outside his door. She stared at him. He was very aware that he was still covered in the dried blood of three persons.
“You’re late” was all she said.
Sarek had thoroughly debugged his residence weeks ago with a radiofrequency detector that he acquired from the Underground, and thus he spoke to T’Priah candidly once inside. As a member of the Insurgency, not as someone who she had intimate relations with for the past month. Sarek recounted in explicit detail regarding Valkh’s attack, Sarek’s role in his subsequent death, and his time at the agonizer. He even told her, after a moment of consideration, about Amanda’s mother. Any knowledge about the mysterious Grayson family was of interest to the Insurgency, and it was not his to hide.
At the end, he bluntly inquired, “Were you aware that Valkh would take action?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I assure you that if the Fire Wolf wants her dead, it would be done much more cleanly. However, Valkh's sacrifice should not have been in vain. This was a rare opportunity but you allowed that Terran to live - ”
Sarek had plenty of time (four hours, two minutes, 36 seconds, to be precise) to substantiate the necessity of his actions – for himself if not just for the Insurgency. “My presence at the store alone would have been enough for me to be charged as an accomplice to murder. If I had let her die, I would still be in the agonizer cells or already executed. They would have undoubtedly tracked my comings and goings and perhaps even stumble into Sanctuary itself. Furthermore, she is of more use to us alive than dead.”
“The four Vulcans – our brethren – that died last month would disagree.”
“They are only four for the sake of many. They knew the risks, and they lost. They did not cover their tracks as they should have. Furthermore, I am in a position that allows me to observe her on a close basis – ”
“Clearly.”
“ – and I am able to learn her vulnerabilities.” Sarek raised an eyebrow. “And thus her family’s and the Empire. Out of gratitude for my actions, her husband has invited me to celebrate Saturnalia - ”
“Saturnalia?”
“ – where many high ranked citizens will be partaking in a wide range of pleasures in many compromising positions. You cannot deny the value in that.”
A trait of T’Priah that Sarek has come to known is that she is able, when necessary, to turn her face into flat, tempered steel. Unyielding and unreadable. However, for her it was only a façade – not a way of life like it was for Sarek – that she put on when she was shocked. “The value remains to be seen.”
“What is it that you care to know?” What information is of the same – no, more - worth as Amanda’s death?
T’Priah was silent for a moment. “The Klingon War. The Empire only boasts of victories while providing no substantial details, yet our sources tell us that the war is not going as well as they’d like us to believe. That maybe, the Empire is actually losing.”
That was unexpected. While Sarek has not returned to Sanctuary since his first introduction, the Coalition still conducted their affairs with short meetings in the Underground. In the past month, they spoke of more local issues - gaining new members, offering support, tampering with economic affairs. Not of the Great Expansion, the Terrans' euphemism for their brutal colonization efforts. Until the Coalition could get off-world, there was little they could truly do to impede the Empire.
“I will see to it that I find more information.”
The silence that fell over the both of them was stiff – tense. Neither were pleased with the other, and Sarek felt a flicker of impatience spark within him. It was concerningly easy for him to fall back on such heated emotions.
“Are you staying?” he asked.
“Do you want me to?”
Sarek briefly considered it. Despite his exhaustion, his nerves still thrummed. He still - craved.
“No."
T’Priah nodded, not seemingly particularly surprised, as she stepped around him. He did not have anything to say, despite their intimate situation this past month. Sarek truthfully valued her company, but he did not desire it. Not now.
Sarek did, however, had one last question before she left. T’Priah stopped when he asked, “How do xenoforms in the Heavenly World celebrate Saturnalia?”
She raised an eyebrow. “We hide - and try to stay alive.”
At the center of his private quarters, Sarek was sitting on his knees fresh out of the shower (cold water instead of sonic – how utterly wasteful). It was dark with only filtered moonlight shining in. His torso was bare, revealing faint fractals of silvery lines that bloomed from where the agonizer’s had lingered. The fern-like pattern blazed across his back and through the small Vulcan glyphs that ran down the length of his spine. He knew from experience that the dermal damage was temporary – that these marks would fade in a few weeks. As for the tremor in his hands… time will tell. He was not so fortunate with that aspect in the past.
But at the present moment, his physical state was not the focus of his fascination. Instead, Sarek examined the object in his hands.
It was delicate and small, a silky scrap of fabric that was as black and smooth as the starry void.
He flipped it over. Sarek rested the glove flat across his hand, as if they were pressing palms against one another. Noted how the length of Amanda’s hand would only reach his first knuckle.
Sarek was still for a moment. Then, with a silent intensity, he slid his index finger inside. The silky fabric, soaked warm from his touch, split open around him. Deeper, until the pad of his fingertip swept over where the meat of her palm would be.
A shudder rippled up his spine, and he crushed the glove in a fist.
Notes:
I have had my first draft of the entire A Mirror Stained Red completed since before I posted Chapter One, and I only go back and edit right before I post the chapter on AO3. I find that in my editing process, there's a lot of new ideas that crop up - including chapter names. Point being, I am considering changing the chapter names so that they follow a sort of theme, so don't be too alarmed by the change! As always, hope you guys are well and enjoying the story - yalls comments are always so sweet to read :))
Chapter 12: saturnalia I
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
‘During My week the serious is barred: no business allowed. Drinking and being drunk, noise and games of dice, appointing of kings and feasting of slaves, singing naked, clapping … Such are the functions over which I preside.’
Spoken by the god Saturn in the poem Saturnalia, written by Lucian of Samosata (AD 120-180).
"Who can sing of the spectacle, the unrestrained mirth, the banqueting, the unbought feast, the lavish streams of wine? …. Never shall age destroy so holy a day! While the hills of Latium remain and father Tiber, while thy Rome stands and the Capitol thou hast restored to the world, … it shall continue."
Silvae, a collection of poems written by Statius at the end of the first century AD.
"The whole mob has let itself go in pleasures..."
Written by Seneca in correspondence to Lucilius, in a collection known as the Moral Letters to Lucilius (AD 65).
Along with the thick fog that comes daily from the sea, Saturnalia rolled into the streets of the Eternal City quietly and overnight.
Creeping light revealed a shining city of gold and glass - every tile and brick were scrubbed away of dirt, rust, and calcium that were deposited from the putrid atmosphere. The buildings of the Municipal District seemed to catch every bit of the sun’s meagers rays that managed to filter through the everpresent overcast, sending threads of dazzling lights across the white marble of the City. Golden garlands and wreathes were webbed around every door, lamp, and railing.
Not even Sarek’s private quarters were spared.
Sitting innocuously on his quarter’s transporter pad was a glistening red and gold box.
He approached it cautiously as though it were a bomb (he would not put it past Terrans for celebrating a holiday in such a way). A gold plaque sat on top, and it weighed heavily in his hand as he picked it up.
His reflection greeted him, but then its surface rippled as though made of molten metal. From the center, the gold pushed outward into a sprout that grew into a stem and then the petals of an unfamiliar flower – the same that Amanda wore as a pin. Letters swirled out from the thick petals and hovered up above the bud. Sarek recognized it as Latin before the letters spun upon an invisible axis and transitioned into Standard.
“Io Saturnalia, citizen! You, Sarek S’chn T’gai, and 199 other subjects have been chosen by the Eternal City’s lottery to join us tonight in Domus and mark the beginning of festivities. As our Honored Guest, prepare to receive transportation at sunset.”
It was a bold, elegant piece of hologram that had Amanda Grayson drenched in it.
Included was a pair of black trousers, fine leather shoes, and a sash of gold that slipped through his fingers like cool water and shimmered like heat in desert air, as fine as the silks of his parents. Every item fit him mysteriously well, even if it be that Amanda conveniently seemed to have forgotten to provide a shirt. Sarek remedied this by utilizing a black button-up from his own private selection.
As he had done in the days prior, Sarek contemplated once more the obvious concerns: being utterly unaware of what was expected of him, the plentiful warnings he had heard from the Coalition members, and surrounding himself with the Heavenly World’s most influential and corrupt – including Amanda Grayson. In short, Sarek attending suggests a clear lack of self-preservation.
And yet he could not deny that he was anticipative for those very same reasons.
So when a black vehicle driven by a familiar Kelpian appeared outside his compound, Sarek scarcely hesitated in entering. It slid up to the sky as a black shard, darting to the west coast of the City.
Dormus was the residential sector of the most wealthy in the Eternal City. It laid along the sealine, separated from the rest of the City by pristine, unmarked marble walls. Unlike the dense, crowded streets of the City, Dormus had manors lazily sprawled about with acres of vivid green grass in every direction. Sarek had never seen so much green in his life.
The Grayson Villa sat on the very edge of rocky cliffs. The ocean’s waves lapped and seethed at its feet. As large as a small town, it was as though Sarek was gazing down at a hologram projection of an ancient Roman dwelling from millenia ago. Except it was not stained or crumbled, but splendid and bright. White walls that glowed in Sol’s dimming light, tall pillars that seemed to line the many courtyard’s sprinkled throughout, and slanted orange roofs that stood out starkly from the grass.
Centered around an outdoor courtyard that already appeared filled with guests, the Villa split off into three wings that were each big enough to house a large family.
The largest one sat closest to the ocean and stood above the others on an impressive if not tedious amount of steps. The hovercraft flew behind it - away from the large crowd - and landed in a small garden.
Sarek departed the craft, and a pathway of red, white, and gold shards glittered toward an archway through which Sarek could see light and hear the dim rumblings of conversation.
But stationed in his way was a large circular table covered with weapons. There were piles of them, ranging from phasers to knives to even vials of poison. Some were archaic and rusted while others shined with gems. Those that had tumbled down laid on the ground like carelessly discarded toys.
Sarek turned to the Kelpian slave. “What is the purpose of this?”
It stared at him with still, glassy eyes. It blinked.
“It cannot speak.”
Sarek turned as the Kelpian bowed low to the voice.
The praetor’s blue eyes shined brightly as he stopped across the long table. “It has been with the Graysons’ for over a decade – even longer than I have - and during which some wayward uncle or another thought it fit to cut off its tongue.”
“An interesting punishment.”
“Not punishment,” Cato corrected. “He was simply hungry. Kelpian tongue is considered a delicacy, after all.”
“Of course,” Sarek said.
Sarek stiffened when Cato suddenly clapped his hand on Sarek’s shoulder. Surely, twisting the host's arm would not win Sarek any favor, so he dismissed the fleeting thought.
“It’s good to see you, Sarek.” The Terran pronounced his name like Sigh-rik, but Sarek did not bother correcting him. “We rarely get one of your kind here.”
“Then I intend to represent my people well in this Terran cultural setting.”
Cato gave a chuckle and nodded his chin to the deadly items on the table. “It is Terran custom for guests to leave all weapons at the doorway – an offering, if you will.”
“Why then would they bring a weapon in the first place?”
“In the past centuries ago, it was to ensure the masters of the household’s safety. Now, is it admittedly more of a symbolic gesture . An acquiescence of control.” Cato wore his Imperial uniform with a metallic russet sash wrapped around his waist. His medals glinted as he opened his coat, revealing a phaser inside. “Only the masters of the house may carry weapons. Guests must take the chance to enter the home of another unarmed, or they may not enter at all. They are under our protection, as well as our wrath.”
An acquiescence of control. Every bit of Terran tradition and philosphy revolved around control – around power. Yet behind their facade and grandiose words, it revealed a deep, potent fear. It never ceased to fascinate Sarek how paranoid Terrans were. All Sarek would really need to do to break any Terran would be to tie them up and left them to their thoughts. Ideally deprive them of all sensory stimuli and –
In short, it was an amusing thought experiment.
Sarek did not say any of this. Instead, his face barely twitched as he replied smoothly, “Unfortunately, I do not have weapons to offer, considering such would be illegal for a Vulcan.”
At Cato’s gesture, Sarek followed him down the path in a leisurely pace, as the Terran commented, “Ah, yes. Aren’t your people some sort of pacifists? It is remarkable that you all were not already enslaved by others.”
“We simply do not value the use of violence in excess – such actions are gratuitous, but I would not mistake that for passivity. We certainly do not abhor it. As for weapons, we are comforted by the fact that we are more than capable with using only strategy.”
Cato gave a sharp laugh. “I agree. At the end of the day, strategy keeps the last Terran standing.”
“Or Vulcan.”
“Is that a threat, Sarek?”
“My attempt at humor, Praetor.”
“I didn’t think Vulcans knew humor even if it stabbed them in the chest.” Cato’s easy smile remained, but there was a lazy attentiveness in his gaze. There was an unexpected patience in this man. Quick to pull the trigger, yes, but only after passing judgement. These were all very admirable qualities even for a Vulcan, but Sarek was curious to see how far his patience went.
“I have been exposed to many sources in my time here on this Heavenly World. Your wife, for example.”
“Yes, Amanda is a sharp thing – more so than is good for her. Always has to have the final say. It is her Grayson blood that makes her troublesome and prideful. See, I was not born into a high family like her – I fought for my position, for her, and for this house. She’s aristocratic – and like all of the other guests, she believes she has a right to control. Do Vulcans have problem with controlling their women?”
“Occasionally,” Sarek said.
Traditionally, females of his kind were expected to serve their husbands in whatever way necessary, but it was ultimately the women who chose their mates. They were the ones who chose to either accept a male or sentence him to a fight to the death. Thus males had to earn their mates – not through emotional measures but rather displays of action and strength.
“Sarek, all women are the same – find their weakness, and you can tame them. And the earlier in the union, the better. Else it would be they who tame you.”
They reached an opening where warm light and festive conversations burst through.
“Take a look around, Sarek. Get some drinks. Whenever you’re ready, come find us. It won’t be long until you’re needed as our Honored Guest.”
Cato was soon swept up into a boisterous conversation with a graying man, and Sarek took note of the greatest stage of frivolity he’s ever seen.
There were dozens of guests milling throughout a maze of hedges, as well as gauzy cloths of red that strung above their heads and down to the ground. They fluttered in the salty breeze, offering brief glimpses of what lays behind each makeshift room. Floor cushions and chaises were occupied by persons and couples clad in fine silks and jewels, and lanterns were strung across the darkening sky. Boisterous laughter rang through the air, and wine flowed freely.
Sarek’s eyes were drawn to the center of the courtyard, where a dais stood above all. Through the sheer curtains, he found a figure and could not look away like a magnet caught in a field.
Amanda sat perched on the arm rest of a chair as though it were a throne. No. More like a lover’s bed with how she lounged on her side, head propped up on her fist, in a familiar and sure manner. Her gown was made of velvet that was a deep red not unlike blood or wine. It laid over her form like a curtain over an art piece, starting at one shoulder, then draping over her chest, cinching at her hip, and then pooling over the chair. The slit of her dress was indecently high – up to her hip bone, and attracted every gaze to the smoothness of her skin and the way it glowed like the marble statues around her.
Sarek was not certain on what made Amanda Grayson capture his attention so quickly and strongly. It was not as though she stood out from the scene around her. Everyone was dressed at their best. She, in fact, looked very much as though she belonged like a centerpiece or artistic fixture. Indeed, as though she puppeteered the people around her like props at her whim (though he would not put it past her to achieve doing so in some manner). There was no quantifiable quality or particular feature or mannerism of hers that should be striking.
Yet now that he has noticed her, there was no way he simply could stop.
From across, Amanda suddenly turned her head and caught sight of him. Her eyes flickered up and down his form, and then met his. Then, she rolled her eyes and looked away. All together in a quick, fluid act that would have been nearly imperceptible to any bystander.
A pleasant, lilting voice spoke suddenly beside him. “That’s as good as a greeting as I’d ever seen one from her.”
Sarek turned to see a tall human female who managed to reach his eyes. Her wild black hair further added a few inches; each curl was neatly oiled and shone like metal in the candlelight. Her dark bronze skin was just as oiled as well, almost appearing as though she was fresh out of the bath. Her silk gown was a vibrant teal that complemented her pale, sea green eyes, further adding to the image of rippling water.
She was beautiful in Vulcan standards, which likely meant she was at most striking to a Terran.
“It is reassuring that you are implying that Mrs. Grayson treats everyone in that manner.”
“Oh, just the lucky ones," the woman chuckled. “You certainly must feel as out of place as I do.”
“As I do not know your level of discomfort, I cannot truly compare. But I can say with certainty that beauty can belong anywhere, Miss… ”
She smiled and held out her free hand. Gold bands adorned her slender wrists. “Kala.”
“Sarek,” he said as he accepted the hand. Sarek sensed no discomfort or maliciousness. Only curiosity.
“I was not aware Vulcans could be so charming. Trust me, my friend. I am just as unwelcomed as you, if not more.”
“You have met Vulcans prior?”
“My path has crossed with some on occasion. The last time was at some research convention. I daresay he was not particularly impressed by me.”
“My kind are not ones to express anything at all.”
“Even flattery?”
“There is no flattery – only truth, Miss Kala. Even Vulcans appreciate beauty, and beauty can be, in many cases, resolute. Furthermore," he said, "you seem to be quite knowledgeable about our hostess, and yet you state to be, as you say, ‘out of place.’”
“I was not raised in a place like this.”
“And where were you raised, then?”
“The Outer Ring, of course.”
When Sarek first arrived to the Eternal City, his ostentatious guide Marissa had explained the competitive opportunity citizens residing in the Outer Ring had to live within the walls. “You passed the final examinations then. That suggests you have a right to be here as much as the others. Certainly more so than myself.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh no, that is Cato’s great story. It takes a certain… determination to succeed the examinations. My beginnings were much humbler – much less respected to be frank.”
Sarek waited pointedly, and Kala laughed once more and leaned in so close that he could smell her perfume.
She was quite animated as she whispered, “On a terribly hot day, I was out on the streets – finding my little sister’s left shoe, mind you. I was a lanky thing, all skin and bones at thirteen, when a kind benefactor passed through on his wheels. For reasons I cannot fathom, he took me in as his own. And oh my, I remember the exact shade of red leather his seats were made of.
“Of course, I would not have even been able to continue my lessons during school if it wasn’t for our lovely hostess. There was only one spot for a harpist, and it was already filled. But Amanda somehow convinced the occupant to relinquish his role and give it to me.”
“You attended school with Mrs. Grayson?”
Kala hummed in affirmation. “Without Amanda, I would not be where I am today.”
Amanda was certainly not one to help anyone out of pure benevolence, but Sarek could see no correlation between the two women.
He imperceptibly tensed when Kala slipped her arm through his. “Speaking of which, it’s rude for us to stand around without greeting our hostess like some Tellerite. Let's go say hello.”
As she led him across the courtyard, the strung red cloths brushed against his cheeks and would occasionally part to reveal little flashes – a gazebo filled with whirling, sweet-scented smoke, hovering tables that carried enough food to feed entire clans, two Orions on top and under a Terran –
When the pair reached the dais, Cato called out in greeting. “Kala, Sarek, come up and sit.”
There were a handful of other guests lounging around, and they glanced over at him with either curiosity or ambivalence.
“Really. This is our Guest of Honor?” commented a thin man who was nearly as tall as Sarek. He had a pallor not unlike Amanda, though his skin appeared thin and tight, almost translucent. It gave him a skull-like appearance that was only accentuated by his watery, pale blue eyes.
“Now, now, Benjamin. He did, after all, rescue my wife.”
Benjamin. Benjamin Archer, perhaps?
Sarek’s eyes flickered down to the golden pin of a hound on the man’s chest.
Oh, most definitely.
Sarek scanned through what little he had heard of the Heavenly World’s Patrician families. This man was the current CEO of Archers Aerospace Designs, the largest shipbuilding interstellar corporation.
It was unsurprising to note that every other individual in this company donned a golden pin of a Patrician family.
“Is this truly necessary?” Amanda said, her voice as pleasant as ever. She took a sip of her wine. “After all, it’s like thanking a dog for sitting.”
“I understand your meaning, General,” said Sarek, over the chuckles of others. “Your wife always has to have the final say.”
Cato gave a rumbling laugh, though Sarek paid him little mind. Amanda smiled at him, as if they were dear friends sharing a joke while raising the rim of her glass to her lips.
His words had the desired effect – namely, irritating Amanda. It brought him inexplicable satisfaction.
A woman with cropped, jet-black hair and even more severe eyes cast a critical eye toward him, as if he were a roach that broke through. “You sure it’s got the stomach for it?”
The man next to her replied, “He is a Vulcan, Fei. They’re not as meek as you’d think, not like a Denobulan!”
“Just want to make sure tonight will end like it did when the - oh, what's-their-names - hosted Saturnalia two years ago. Emperor knows that we won’t make the mistake to have such commoners accepted in the fold.”
“Oh, don’t be such a snob, Fei.”
“Me? The snob?”
Fei leaned forward, nostrils flared, but Amanda’s soft, low voice commanded everyone’s attention. “On the contrary, I thought it was quaintly pedestrian.”
Soft chuckles broke the tension, and Amanda redirected the conversation to some droll, mundane topic.
To Sarek’s satisfaction, the evening progressed with very little need of him to talk. Terrans took great pleasure in speaking, especially in matters regarding war and victory. It seemed as though most of them cared little for Sarek’s presence, if they even noticed. Sarek did not mind in the least. He did come here to observe – to learn, after all.
Yet Amanda, of course, seemed determined to prevent this. Anytime the conversation strayed into territory that tottered over the line of government secret, she was there at Cato’ side to expertly alter the route.
“– is utterly wasteful! We need to take swift, decisive actions that would squash any form of dissent. Put their damn heads on spikes if we have to! Dragging out the war only succeeds in getting us lot fatter.”
“It is hardly so simple. Your concern over the dilithium supply is warranted, but we need not worry for decades. Andoria is more than – ”
“Must we have such sordid debates?” interrupted Amanda. She tilted her chin toward Sark. “Particularly in such company?”
“Do not refrain from conversing on my account. I do not desire my presence to be an intrusion.”
“If that were true then you wouldn’t have come,” she replied. “Besides, I don’t think topics of war would be particularly interesting to you, would it?”
Well, Sarek certainly was not going to say no, he was in fact very interested.
No matter. It seems Amanda was not expecting or wanting a response from him. “Haven’t you visited Andoria before, Admiral Quintin?” she asked, changing the course of the conversation. “Is it truly as cold as they say?”
Sarek wanted to point out that she already knew the answer. All of those Andorian books she would often refer to certainly told as much. Amanda knew more about Andorians – about any species – than anyone in the room, including Sarek, but no one else knew that. No one else really knew what her job even was.
However, after a few instances, he realized there was a pattern – all questions were of a personal nature.
"Secrets are a greater currency than anything," she had told him once as they were sorting through a Tellerite encyclopedia set. There were certain times when Amanda would be inexplicably struck by the urge to lecture endlessly over some obscure topic or another, and Sarek had learned to sit quietly and listen. "A lot can be said by how one says it, and what they choose to leave out."
Evidently, Amanda was here to learn as well.
Kelpian slaves occasionally emerged from the drapes with trays of sparkling drinks and artfully made small dishes. Terrans were a glutinous species in all manner of things – wealth, sex, power, emotions. It was no shock that this would be extended to meals as well.
When a slave passed by him once more, Cato spoke. “Sarek. Is the food not agreeing?”
A silence fell over the table at the query. Sarek considered the items on the pan.
Bite-sized seared steak with red wine sauce.
“Vulcans do not partake in eating meat.”
“No meat?” Cato shook his head. “Well, what do you lot eat then?”
“Vegetation and grains, mainly.”
“One cannot gain muscle and mass simply from vegetables.”
“My people require less substances to sustain ourselves and can survive longer without food or water. We have adapted to our desert planet, where animals are few in number and often toxic to consume.”
Kala shook her head, her airy voice adding some breadth into the tense conversation. “No wonder you Vulcans are such a trim lot.”
Cato gestured to Sarek’s plate insistently. “Well, we have all the meat in the world – in the galaxy – at our disposal. Eat.”
“I do not eat meat,” Sarek repeated.
Cato’ smile never wavered. “And why not, when you have it here at your limitless disposal?”
Over the rim of her glass, Amanda’s eyes met his with an unblinking intensity.
Their recent discussion regarding Vulcan philosophy entered his thoughts –not being wasteful and not killing in excess, both of which were not particularly followed by the Terrans. Amanda and he had debated with their sharp tongues and quick thoughts, but Sarek did not believe Cato would enjoy being blatantly challenged in such a way.
“My people are not and have never been great hunters like your distinguished people. Milleniums of never eating meat – it simply is not part of our diet.”
Amanda looked away, bored, in apparent approval, as Cato’ smile grew. “Vulcans – you all seem to embrace moderation in all manners of living. Eating, drinking, fucking – ”
A titillating laugh overcame the table, in which many of its occupants were now in some fourth or sixth glass of wine. Purple-stained lips stretched onto roguish grins. Among the laughter came suggestive commentary.
“– can certainly teach him –”
“He’ll see soon enough – ”
“All meat, you think? A pity he does not partake in sausage – ”
Sarek did not particularly understand the latter statement especially, only that the Terrans were laughing at his expense. It even succeeded in bringing a wry smile to Amanda’s face, which she carefully covered with her glass.
“Now, now.” Kala suddenly leaned over, pressing her front against his side. Her breath brushed over his sensitive skin. “We need not scare our dear Sarek away.”
She directed her next words at him. “Tell me – do Vulcans feel desire?”
“Desire is a necessary component for many biological specimens, even Vulcans. The drive to mate and to reproduce is shared with Vulcans, although we are comparatively… subtle to Terrans.”
“Now, our sweet Kala has me curious.” Cato pointed at Sarek with his cutting knife. “What do Vulcans – you – find desirable? What is the ideal Vulcan woman?”
Many of the Terran males leaned forward with an obvious interest. The women were better at hiding it, though even Amanda had focused her attention on him as well.
At Cato’ expectant gaze, Sarek finally answered in a levelled tone. “An ideal union is marked by compatibility – the complementing of the mind.”
“Should’ve known,” sighed Kala forlornly. “Smart is undeniably sexy. You, Mister Sarek, must have some smart lady back at home. Someone who had straight As and speaks in such big words like you do.”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “Intelligence has many facets. An analytical mind, which is what you describe, is one. An individual like yourself – gifted in the musical arts – have a more unique and fluid form of intelligence. It is no less impressive.”
Kala gave a wide, blinding smile, as she rested her chin on his shoulder. “My, you have a way with words.”
It was only then, that Amanda’s quiet, smooth voice cut across like silk. “It seems rather narcissistic, then, to crave a mind like yours.”
Sarek met her gaze. A slim spoon dangled loosely between her fingers, as she lazily stirred her small bowl of chocolate.
“With all respect, Mrs. Grayson, you misunderstand. Complements, by definition, complete each other. The pieces may not be the same precise shape, but there is undoubtedly a suitability.”
Amanda tilted her head. “Then to continue your analogy, two pieces of a puzzle share an edge and are complementing, as you say. However, the shape appears different at first, but they are of the same picture – the same substance. Likeness inevitably comes with complements.”
“And I agree. Yet it is not likeness in interests or background or even temperament that tells of the compatibility of minds. It is likeness of – ”
It was so easy for him to fall back into their familiar flow. It was dangerously so, as the Vulcan word hovered at the tip of his tongue.
Karik’es, he wanted to say. Strength.
But to speak Vulcan outside the safety of the Red Room was a death sentence, and he – in a lazy, sloppy lapse – almost forgot.
“ – will,” he finished. Although his hesitation was less than a second, the corner of her mouth lifted into the barest of smiles. “Both minds should be equal in strength.”
“Is that not dull? Then neither one could win.”
“On the contrary, it is rather stimulating. The satisfaction is in the match, not the victory. Victory is temporary.”
Amanda opened her mouth, eyes bright, but Cato’ rumbling voice cut across. Until then, Cato had watched the strange battle as still as a statue with his chin resting on his hand. His glassy blue eyes had flickered back and forth like a pendulum.
“The chase is enjoyable, yes. But there are some victories – ” Cato reached for Amanda’s hand. “ – that are everlasting. Isn’t that right?”
Something hot and burning flared – just barely – within him. Before Sarek could even address or name it, he carefully tucked it away for later inspection. “Quite so.”
“But of course, you still haven’t answered my initial question: the ideal Vulcan woman.” Cato leaned back on his chair. “Not unions or matches, but a woman. What is the Vulcan belief in desirability?”
“We place less emphasis on the physical body, but throughout history, our past art often admired women who were tall and angular in feature. In general, lines have always been used in art for aesthetic reasons, and that can be translated to physical beauty. Straight hips and an overall symmetrical body. There is a certain appreciation towards the matching of characteristics, such that being the two partners in a relationship visibly fit. This could be accomplished by having similar heights, thus being tall, and so on.”
“I agree with Amanda – that does sound rather narcissistic,” chuckled Kala. “A woman as tall as you? I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Vulcans are not narcissistic,” Sarek said, ignoring Amanda’s quiet scoff. “This analysis is based on centuries of art. But as we had previously discussed, Miss Kala, there are various kinds of beauty that are resolute, such as yourself.”
Cato cocked his head. “It is hardly good manners to not then complement the Lady of the House. You do not believe my wife is desirable?”
Outwardly, Amanda appeared the epitome of bored and detached.
Sarek spoke deliberately, carefully, though no less sincere. “As a Vulcan, I do not condone ideas of desire, but not even the old painters of Vulcan could deny her beauty.”
However, Amanda, to Sarek’s amusement, tossed her hair once more, a sign of her irritation. Sarek turned to Cato. “Marriage is becoming on her.”
Cato let out a barking laugh just as a bell peeled across the entire garden. The lights above them dimmed and rippled into a wave that led toward the main courtyard.
The guests milled around him, and Kala and Amanda stood as well.
Sarek made to stand, but Amanda raised a hand. “Wait here until I get you.”
“Are the festivities over?” he asked.
Kala laughed, and even Amanda's lips quirked a smile. “Darling," said the latter. "Saturnalia has yet to begin.”
Before he could reply, she held a hand out to her husband.
“Go ahead,” Cato told her. “I’ll keep our guest company.”
Amanda hesitated, eyes briefly flickering between the two men. She nodded and left.
Kala gave him a passing wink. “Good luck. See you on the other side.”
When Cato pulled out a knife, Sarek briefly wondered if there may exist some obscure Saturnalia law that would excuse himself for killing a Terran.
From his other pocket, Cato took out a piece of white stone no bigger than a fist.
Then, the Terran began to carve it.
The Terran and the Vulcan sat in silence, as the latter observed the former’s actions. The movements were skilled, the grip on the knife comfortable. It was clear that Cato did this often.
Finally, Cato spoke outloud. “This has been a hobby of mine since childhood. A way for me to get comfortable with a knife, according to my uncle.”
“As Chief Praetor, you would now not have issues with knife handling.”
Cato chuckled. “That is true, but I am not comfortable with leisure as my companions are. This keeps me sharp.” Then, as if an afterthought, “I gifted Amanda one of these when I proposed to her.”
Sarek paused, tilting his head. “Forgive me if this is transgressing – I am, of course, not familiar with the superior Terran way– but would you entertain my curiosity by informing me of your great ascent in Terran society? You mentioned previously how you came from a different background, yet here you are, wealthy in status and in wife.”
Despite having his lips lightly curled into an amiable smile, Cato’s cutting gaze did not lessen. “And why would a Vulcan be curious about Terran private matters?”
“As I intend on becoming Ambassador of Vulcan, it is necessary for myself to understand Terran tendencies and inclinations. There is no better paradigm than the Chief Praetor of the Eternal City.”
“Hardly,” bluntly said Cato. “Now, if that was your attempt at flattery, it was absolute shit.”
“It is not often that Terrans disregard flattery.”
“I’m not disregarding it – I’m saying it was a shit attempt.”
“Then allow me to be forward.” At Cato’s acquiescing gesture, Sarek continued with his characteristic levelled, yet sharp tone. “You come from the Outer Ring, and I have heard Terrans and xenoforms alike disparage its residents. Often equating the people as waste or brutes. As one who is only Vulcan, I desire to know about how you were able to not only overcome the prejudice against your background but also be accepted by the Patricians. Indeed you even married into one of the most influential families of the Empire.”
Cato’s blade glinted in his hand as he briefly paused in consideration. Then, the blade began to move in deliberate, smooth glides. “You want to know why they - ” Cato gestured towards the direction his wife departed “ - hate the Outer Ring so?”
Before Sarek could respond, Cato gave a decisive slash down, and a block tumbled to the ground. The clatter was softer than he expected. “They think themselves ready for war. But when it comes down to it, they know nothing of it. Those in the City who enter Starfleet remain in the sector as glamorized security guards. War is fighting for your next breath - for scraps and evading those who are desperate enough to eat their own flesh. War is hunger and hallowness and they bedazzle it in promises of gold and glory.
Cato stopped and took another draught. “So when they hear of how we survive out there – just a dozen steps beyond a shared wall – they are reminded by their own ineptitude. They feel threatened. They make those beyond the wall fight for a place within the City.”
“How does one win?”
“Well, the top 5% to pass examinations are offered a position of their choosing in the city.”
“I am curious to know what the examinations consist of.”
“Mathematics,” Cato said. “English. Sciences. Philosophy. The examinations are simply examinations. But - imagine this: The top 5% names are projected on the outer walls, visible for everyone to see. The whole community knows who to target, and you can be certain that they will all be working together to get rid of them as the rounds of examinations proceed. You need more than excellent grades – grades and scores can only get you so far in this universe. No, you need to survive, as the enemies become the very brothers and sisters you grow up with.”
Cato fell silent, and Sarek took the time to muse over the information. It was not unexpected to hear how the Empire pitted its own people against one another. Objectively, it was hardly different from what his own people did themselves for the sake of career and status advancement. What Cato described – the pursuit of top achievements, even if that means through killing – was commonly seen on Vulcan, albeit in a more discrete, dignified manner. Like movement of a chess piece, rather than a hunt of a deer.
How many bodies did it take for Cato to reach the top, Sarek wondered.
Sarek tried flattery once more. “Your honorable reputation is truly deserving then.”
“The examinations were only a prelude to my life here. Champions are able to decide what sector they want to enter – and I had always wanted to see the stars.” A pause, as Cato gazed into his drink. “I joined Starfleet, and during my first week here, I found a bookstore. Mind you, books are a rarity in the Outer Rims.”
A smile reached the Terran’s face, a markedly softer one that Sarek has yet seen. “I look over to see a lovely thing - like a portrait come to life. She is aloof and cares little for me I could tell. I was a rough grunt. Blood and dirt still stuck under my nails, but I coax her into a conversation, and, at one point, she even laughs. It turns out I had just met the daughter of the man in charge of my training in Starfleet, and within weeks we were married at Amanda’s insistence.”
Without warning, Cato tossed the stone, and Sarek caught it easily.
Sarek studied it. It was a rough, quick carving of a face done in a short amount of time, but with a start, Sarek recognized its likeness.
It was the Vulcan girl who jumped from the burned house. The one who he never learned was alive or dead.
Sarek did not visibly react. Cato likely chose to carve her to instigate a response, but Sarek would not provide one. He refused to, so instead he focused on the conversation. His hand curled around the piece.
It was difficult for Sarek to envision Amanda Grayson enamored with someone so beneath her status, no matter her youth at the time.
Furthermore, there were other gaps in the story.
As a Vulcan averse to emotional display, any slip loud to him. There was one instance during Cato's speaking that caught his attention. “And did you?” Sarek asked.
“Did I what?”
“See the stars.”
Abruptly, a barely noticeable shift overtook the Terran. A sudden stillness. The cuttingness of his smile, no longer soft. The flatness of his eyes.
“Did Amanda put you up to this?” Cato asked – demanded as he leaned forward with knife still in hand.
Sarek opened his mouth, but Cato cut across with more force. “Is this another one of her games?”
Sarek spoke carefully and deliberately. “She did not. I only inquire as your esteemed position as Chief Praetor requires you to protect the Heavenly World.”
A glamorized security guard. Call it intuition, as a Terran would, but Sarek believed he found a weak point.
Sarek did not blink as Cato gazed at him with hard eyes, searching pointlessly for answers that the Terran would surely fill himself as his species often do. It seems that even her husband was not immune to Amanda’s calculating moves.
Cato’s eyes flicked to over Sarek’s shoulder. With an impressive amount of neutrality, the Terran said, “It seems you are being called to.”
Acutely aware of Cato’s presence, Sarek turned his head to see Amanda’s Kelpian creature towering at the archway.
Its eyelid gave a snick as it blinked over its wide, cloudy eyes.
Sarek stood and paused. He opened his palm. “It would please me if you were to gift this to myself.”
Cato gave a cursory nod, who seemed to have tired of Terran pleasantries.
But Sarek was not done yet.
He held up the too-light piece of carving. “This is not stone,” Sarek said.
Cato smiled. “You see, Andorian is too brittle. Snaps like a twig. Kelpians and Orions’ – theirs are filled with a gel-like fluid. Too messy and not enough material. Vulcans are too dense, and forget about a Klingon – it’s like trying to carve through steel. The best, you see, is human bones. After all, beyond the walls, bones are much more accessible than wood.”
The Terran watched as Sarek followed the Kelpian out, and Sarek could see a glimpse of the man who clawed his way into the Inner Ring.
Sarek followed the Kelpian to an archway of vines, where it then stepped to the side and waited. Sarek thus had nothing left to do but enter the Grayson Gardens.
It was more of a labyrinth composed of hedges, trees, and stones. There was a lack of symmetry as one would see in a Vulcan garden. It was as though a snake created the path, slinking and slithering one direction and then another. Sarek couldn’t even be certain if there was an end.
A Terran could perhaps get lost, easily. But for a Vulcan, direction was ingrained.
As soon as he entered the labyrinth, however, he became aware of a following presence. A faint click that repeated itself as an item hit sharply against the stone floor. Her heels always gave her away, but he was certain that she did not care.
Every turn he made, she followed. Every time he stopped, so did she.
Yet at some point, she suddenly began to grow faint until he couldn’t pinpoint her precise location any longer. Then suddenly, her footsteps would reappear again – this time in a completely opposite direction, only to repeat the process once more.
Sarek increased his speed – just so that he gained distance between them. Then, he began to curve around, as he kept an attentive ear out to follow her steps.
But of course, once she seemed to sense the change in dynamic, her steps went silent and he lost her.
Soon, the sound of her steps faintly wafted in the air once more.
Eventually, the two were caught in a strange orbit – following each other around and around. Inevitably, they began to shift towards the west side of the garden.
Sarek turned a corner and stopped.
There, in perfect serenity, sat Amanda Grayson. Perched on a stone bench and gazing up on the sky as if she had all the time in the world.
“Did the chase bore you?”
She raised an eyebrow and stood. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I find your statement doubtful.”
“That’s not very kind to call me a liar. I was simply taking a stroll.”
“I have noticed. Yet you decided to stop.”
“I tired.” She gave a delicate yawn behind her hand. “We should head back. The real ceremony is soon to begin.”
Before he could respond, a pleasant, more familiar scent wafted into his senses. Sarek cocked his head, nostrils flaring as he turned around.
They were at the edge of the gardens. He could hear the sound of waves crashing against the side of a rocky cliff. Salt had entered the air, but even it could not overwhelm the sweet, subtle fragrance emanating from one part of the garden. The ocean air was blowing westward, and it carried the floral scent from somewhere between him and the sea.
He turned back to see Amanda’s steady gaze on him.
As she had taught him, what was important was what was not being said. Or, in this case, what was not being looked at.
His eyes glinted with recognition.
“Nonsense,” he said eventually, stepping away towards the side. “I am quite curious on what lies here.”
Amanda followed and eventually maneuvered her way around him so that she stood on his other side – separating him and the hedge. Ire crept into her voice. “Plants, I imagine.”
He looked at her curiously, and then behind her once more.
Suddenly, he could see a faint, almost imperceptible ripple.
Sarek has seen has fair share of cloaking devices, a technology that was just beginning to become feasible on Vulcan prior to the Terran takeover. Admittedly, the concept originated from the Romulans. The two cousin species were at war for three centuries prior to the rise of the Terran Empire. Only two decades before the Terran take over did Vulcan finally obliterate the Romulan species, who were deemed as far too dangerous of a threat. It was better to rid of them entirely, than let another inevitable war happen down the line.
Naturally, Amanda’s people took it for themselves once they recognized its value.
He stepped towards it, and the cloak fell in a ripple of blue light. It revealed a slim wrought iron door embedded in a hedge.
He turned, as Amanda stopped directly in front of it. She was doing a rather inefficient attempt at hiding it.
“I agree, Mrs. Grayson. Plants.” Sarek looked past her through the door’s iron rods, where he can see an opening. “This is quite a door.”
Her chin was tucked under in an uncharacteristic manner, thus appearing almost dulcet and shy. Her arms were crossed behind her back, and her eyes looked at him almost woefully. There was only a breadth of space between them. He casted his gaze down at her. Her eyelashes slowly fluttered, as she said endearingly, “Oh, I don’t know what door you speak of.”
Sarek could imagine this was the girl Cato found in the bookshop – sweet, youthful, and playful. The girl that Cato immediately thought to marry.
Sarek, meanwhile, was never one to find naivety attractive.
His hand reached past her to find the metal door handle. He gently pushed it open, and it swung open easily with little resistance – thus a testament to being well-used and cared for.
“This one,” he said simply, as he slid past her.
Amanda’s sweet mask fell away, leaving behind sharp, profound annoyance.
Cobblestone transitioned into smooth pieces of tile, each rouching half an inch wide. It was what caught his eye first, as even under the moon, the brilliance of the mosaic pattern on the floor was not to be outshone. Vivid shades of navy blues scattered among ivory and yellows formed an intricate pattern.
Walking to the center of the circular space, Sarek could see it was remarkably detailed – each tile contributed to some pattern that spiraled out of the center, like tendrils of a star. The floor maintained its glossy sheen, as though it was brand new.
Amanda watched by the door, her arms now crossed tightly in front of her. A small smile still clung to her lips.
She really did not like him here.
Sarek considered this, as his eyes fell on the sources of the sweet fragrance.
Green bushes lined the perimeter, their glossy leaves peering at him with white streaks. Ruby red buds blossomed among the bushes. Their perfectly maintained petals had little, if any, tears and remained open as though beckoning him in.
He walked over to inspect one particularly full bud. It wasn’t until he reached out to caress it that Amanda finally walked to his side, shutting the iron door behind her.
Her intensity gave Sarek the impression of a hovering mother sehlat.
This area, unlike the rest of the gardens, was symmetrical from the mosaic to the bushes. It was tight, perfectly kept, and controlled – like its creator. And like any prideful creature that found themselves trapped or vulnerable, Amanda struck out first to guide the conversation.
“It is not too late for you to run back to your hole. The night is only going to get even more alien to you.”
“I should hope so. I came to learn.” Sarek glanced down at her. “Have I met the improbable Terran standards?”
“Honestly?” Amanda’s lips pressed into a line. “You have done well – despite your clear enjoyment in toying the line between wit and offense. But I remind you it has only been dinner. During the entertainment, I guarantee you many of our guests will try to snatch you up for themselves.”
“You tell me to go, yet you refuse to clarify on what this ‘entertainment’ is.”
“Don’t play coy with me, darling, it doesn’t suit you! You know precisely what kind of entertainment this is. A Vulcan at these events are a rarity, and your people are notoriously stuffy. ”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “We are reserved. Simply because we do not parade our sexual conquests about – ”
“Stuffy,” she summarized. “Just keep to yourself, and perhaps, you will make it out unscathed.”
“Miss Kala told me something similar.”
Amanda delicately plucked a leaf with a smattering of holes, likely from an insect. She inspected it between her slim fingers, before suddenly crumpling it in her hand.
“Kala,” she finally repeated. “Yes, take care with that one especially. She fucks anything that walks.”
“Does she?”
“It comes with the job, I’m afraid. Being a performer on our world requires a… diverse skillset, much to the woe of many housewives – and husbands.”
“She informed me that without your intervention, she would’ve never been able to hone in her skills as she did. That was quite generous of you, Mrs. Grayson, to assist Kala.”
“Hardly.”
“I am curious then on what motivated you to help another.”
“Perhaps because I am a generous person who acts simply to be kind. Is that so hard to believe?”
Sarek was always careful to always maintain a neutral expression. This was taught to him since birth, and he wore it like a shield or a comforting blanket. It was his, but somehow, Amanda seemed to see beyond it.
“You’re displeased with me.”
He flipped her hand palm up. He brushed his thumb lightly over her fingertips. “Hardly. I just do not understand how you take joy in maintaining such charades.”
“Now you think me insincere as well?”
“Yes. Do you tire of it? Spending your whole life speaking half-truths and playing personas?”
“No. Are you?” she asked. “Tired of it?”
His eyes flickered to hers. He became aware of how close they were, and how warm he felt despite the chill, ocean air.
“No,” he said finally. “However your husband is a different matter.”
Her smile disappeared, and her lips instead were tilted downward into a faint frown. Her gaze dropped onto a red blossom. Her thumb swept over the petal.
“Careful.” Her light tone did little to cover the warning of her words. “You transgress.”
“Hardly. I was invited to your home and have made effort in Terran dialogue and pleasantries – ”
“I wish you wouldn’t tease him so.”
A strange silence fell – not tense, but certainly careful, weighty.
Sarek didn’t bother to deny it. “It was hardly a transgression.”
First, you baited him in revealing personal information, and then you baited me – his wife – into a debate – ”
“Which you participated in rather willingly – ”
“It was improper. You do not consider that while you get to leave tonight it is I that has to stay behind and – ” Amanda gave an uncharacteristic exhale. “And deal with his temper.”
“Does he hit you?”
She scoffed. “He wouldn’t dare – not if he wants to keep that hand. Besides, only self-destructive men hit their wives, and Cato is certainly not that.”
“If not self-destructive, then what is he?”
“Restless,” she said after a moment. “I try to keep him – entertained, but he is always pulled back into his moods at some point or another.”
The words leave him suddenly. Stupidly. “I cannot conceptualize a reason for why you would marry him.”
The smile was barely there, a ghost to her lips. A flush of embarrassment ran through him, but she did not point out his mistake. “Why do you want to know? So that you can tell your little shadows?”
There was an undercurrent to her words, and he met her eyes steadily. Did she mean the Coalition? Was it possible she knew of them? If she did the Emperor himself might as well knows.
“Shadows are only shadows,” he said, almost gently. “They can only observe, not cut.”
She hummed. “It’s simple. Because I married him because I love him.”
Vulcans don’t roll eyes to express exasperation and contempt, but Sarek did the Vulcan equivalent – briskly ending the conversation.
“We should make our return,” he said, moving away.
He would’ve kept going if Amanda didn’t grab his clothed arm. Even more alarming, she laughed. It was a quiet, light one, but mesmerizing, nonetheless. A pleasant heat seeped into his skin, which he attributed to her warm hand.
“I will consider answering – ”
“A serious answer.
“A serious answer,” she agreed. “But only if you allow me something in trade.”
His hand flexed, causing his knuckle to brush against the soft velvet of her dress skirt. “Name your terms.”
“So formal,” she teased, dropping her hand to his wrist. Sarek tensed. “Well, this has been bothering me all night. Darling, you’re dressed like a sex-deprived boy from the Academy.”
At that, she began to roll up his white sleeves in precise, expert motions.
Sarek watched her fingers dance elegantly, and then his eyes flickered to her face. She was focused on the task at hand, but her gaze would slide lazily up to his and back. It was comparatively… difficult to focus with her fingertips occasionally brushing along the veins of his inner forearm. It was like sudden glares of light blinding his vision.
“I am certain I wear it the proper way,” he said, finally.
Did she know that it was Vulcan custom for only one’s mate to handle their clothing? It was seen as scandalously improper for a stranger to do so.
“Proper, indeed. Stuffy, one could say.”
Despite Vulcan being a hot planet, the inside of the elbows, wrists, and palms were considered almost erotic. Sleeves, especially loose ones, were almost always worn in public. It was intimate, especially when it ended with bared skin, as she was doing.
She walked across in front of him, a wave of floral scent hitting him once more. She began to roll up his other sleeve.
To follow Vulcan’s value of candor, Sarek can admit that stopping her frankly never crossed his mind.
He did, however, jolt when she raised her hands towards her face.
His hands tightly wrapped around her wrists in an instant, freezing her in place. Warmth rushed from her skin into his, and he struggled – with letting go or holding on, he did not know.
Amanda certainly did not know of the Vulcan touch telepathy ability. She tilted her head, eyes flickering to his neck, as she spoke kindly, as if to calm a child. “Last thing.”
Sarek laxed his grip, as she adjusted his collar. Her knuckles brushed against the vulnerable flesh of his neck. The fabric slackened about his neck, as she unbuttoned the top three buttons.
She pressed down the collar of his button up. She stepped back, and her eyes swept across his form.
“Much better,” she said.
“I married Cato because all the other alternatives were worse. I could’ve married another Patrician, but that meant they and their families would have a grip on our Industries and there are not many that I would allow into my shares.
Furthermore, I know he can do what needs to be done. Raising a family is not an easy task, particularly with a family name such as ours. Any man who could survive the Examinations – by the deaths of two dozen in his class - could protect me. Particularly in the way he did.”
“How?”
“Mostly, he persuaded others to do the work for him. Not just other students, but people in the community. He promised them change and opportunity, and thus got many to betray friends and even family. Terrans have a saying, ‘To kill is to never forget.’ So even after Cato left that life behind, a whole community was left ravaged by death and betrayal, and the pain continues to fester even today.”
Sarek cast his gaze up toward the cloudy sky, as he breathed in the cool ocean air. “A remarkable man to share your bed with.”
Naturally, she spoke defensively. “We share an understanding. I understand him more than anyone else, and he with me – ”
Sarek truthfully did not know what was revealed in his expression as his eyes flickered sharply down to hers. He just knew it was more disquieting to hear than saying she loved him.
“It’s an understanding that comes with seven years of marriage,” she said unapologetically. “An acknowledgement that should one harm me, I can rely on him to act on it. Even more rare is man who allows me to live the way I want without encroaching on my interests and independence.”
“That is unexpectedly naïve. He is dangerous, even to you.”
“Don’t act like I’m some pathetic wife cowering under my husband – ”
“I simply do not understand why you defend him so. He has no honor or code. He killed his own brother – ”
She gave out a derisive laugh. “So did my father. So did my brother. It’s quite common, really, and if I recall correctly, darling, you as good as killed your own father.”
Tell the Terran Ambassador, S’chn T’gai Sarek.
The whispers slipped into his mind like syrup, warm and thick and nauseating. Sarek pressed his lips into a line, preventing from drawing them in a snarl. “You know nothing of that.”
“Oh, you mean about how you reported him for suspicious long-range communications with the Beta Quadrant?”
It will be for the survival of the Clan.
“Ambassader Skon wasn’t even being investigated – ”
A sacrifice for the needs of the many –
“I wouldn’t even cross the line - ”
For the greater good of the few –
“And send my own father to death - ”
He snapped. He did not think – he just had to make the power of Her –
She-who-knows-all –
T’Pau –
Great Mother -
- voice go away and be quiet -
His hand stopped just a brush away from Amanda’s neck. It was the cold point of a dagger against his jaw that woke him.
Amanda smiled at him and leisurely dragged the knife down the length of his neck. “I’ve never seen you lose control before. It’s a good look.”
A soft beat – one that was always there, he realized, beneath the thrum of his heart’s own - became noticeable from a distance. It steadily grew louder until it vibrated the air and pulse against his skin.
A change swept through Amanda, who stepped back and let out an exulted laugh. Her knife slipped somewhere beneath the fabrics of her skirt.
“Let us forget such talks. It’s time,” she said, voice elevated above the song of festivities. There was a flush in her cheeks and a wideness to her eyes. She held out her hand, and it was the most alive he has ever seen her.
Months ago on his home plane, Sarek would have repented his err with days of meditation, fasting, and punishment.
But now in this alien, Heavenly World, any concern was disregarded as was befitting for this holiday. Sarek accepted her hand without further thought, and for a moment, the fire in his blood was calmed once again.
Amanda pulled him out of the maze and up the grand set of steep, marble steps that vibrated beneath his feet. Casting his gaze over Amanda, the white stone speared into the starless sky and appeared almost endless. A reverberating chorus grey louder and louder as they reached the top where an alter stood. Sarek looked down to see that the steps began to descend on the side opposite of which they ascended, and down below was a crowd of two-hundred, all swaying and singing in song. From afar, there was a certain beauty and harmony, but if one were to look closer, there was a frenzy and hunger in their eyes.
A Grand Priest waited in front of a basin of white fire. Clad in white and wine-red, the greying Terran stood with the strength and energy of one youthful than he.
He spread his arms wide as he spoke over the courtyard, his timbered voice washing over the song of the people.
“Loyal servants, the moon is at our zenith and thus marks another year of spreading our glory light-years beyond into the void. Under the benevolence of our Emperor Sato, we have civilized planets and decimated our enemies.
“We face a difficult year ahead for the Great Expansion where thousands of us will perish for the Great Expansion, but millions of our enemies will fall. It is time for us to give thanks to our Emperor Sato and show we are ready to make the sacrifice under His great name. There is the blood of his enemies – those who we have saved yet rejected our teachings.”
Sarek followed Amanda down the steps closer to the people. Sarek could scarcely organize his thoughts beyond the drums and voices around him, but he watched only Amanda as she, standing a couple steps above him, turned to face him so that she stood at eye-level.
In her hand was a golden knife.
An image flashed across his mind – Amanda’s soft eyes on his as a cold blade slides between his ribs – green blood spilling across white steps like his father’s –
Sarek could tell by how Amanda smiled at him, as if they had shared a wordless joke, that she thought of it too. How easy would it be for her to kill him, here and now.
In a flash, the dagger flipped in her hand. Amanda held it out to him, hilt first.
The dagger was still warm from her touch when he accepted it.
Perhaps he was expected to perform in some morbid act of self-sacrifice? Before his confusion could take root, Amanda stepped down beside him, and he faced the crowd below.
Sarek then noticed that six Terrans of various sexes, ages, and class flocked either side of him in a V, each carrying a knife of their own. Beside each one was a bloodied xenoform in chains.
A couple steps in front of Sarek was a Terran male. Pale hair with pale eyes that stared unblinking as he knelt in front of Sarek. The Terran's pupils were dilated, and his breathing was shallow. Sarek could not discern if it was fear or exhilaration that kept the Terran rooted. Aware of the cameras on him, Sarek did not allow his confusion to show.
“The family of Felix Slater will be free of famine and labor for the next year due to his glorious sacrifice, his life given to the Empire by the hands of Sarek of Vulcan.”
The drums grew in speed into a frenzied song of blood until even the sky appeared red. All the Terrans beneath him raised their knives.
Sarek’s eyes flickered to Amanda, who met his stare. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed.
The priest sang, “May this pure Terran blood and the blood of the forsaken, spilled in the name of Emperor Benjamin Sato, flow as unimpeded as our future victories.”
Resignation and understanding rolled through him.
If the Terrans wanted a show, then he would give it to them.
At the climax of the drumming, Sarek pressed his knife against the jugular of the Terran. His heart was pounding in his ears, but his hand did not waver in the slightest.
With little to no flourish – Sarek was never one to be performative – Sarek dragged the dagger across. It sang through skin, tendon, meat, and a river of red spewed out from the gash.
The Terran fell over, its body still jerking from the flow. From beside him, the other soft songs of knives filled the air, followed by the heavy thuds of bodies.
Red, green, and blue streamed in ribbons down over the white steps towards the hungry, frenzied crowd below who cheered of their approval.
And then, the night sky split open.
Notes:
aha im so sorry for disappearing - to put it succinctly, im in a new chapter of my own life/career and it is hectic! I've never stopped thinking about AMSR though, and I tried so hard to post this chapter around the holidays to match the timeline with the story! I hope you guys are still here and enjoyed this chapter. It was definitely a longer one and harder to complete. It's not perfect but I'm learning to stop being such a perfectionist and just chuck out the story for u guys to enjoy.
With that, I'd love to hear from you guys and check in. As always, hope you are well and happy holidays <3
Chapter 13: saturnalia II
Notes:
Previously:
With little to no flourish – Sarek was never one to be performative – Sarek dragged the dagger across. It sang through skin, tendon, meat, and a river of red spewed out from the gash.
The Terran fell over, its body still jerking from the flow. From beside him, the other soft songs of knives filled the air, followed by the heavy thuds of bodies.
Red, green, and blue streamed in ribbons down over the white steps towards the hungry, frenzied crowd below who cheered of their approval.
And then, the night sky split open.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sky gave a bone-jarring, never-ending roar, and the ground quaked beneath Sarek so strongly that he thought it would give way. The air vibrated in his lungs with such force so he could scarcely breath, as though the sky was violently ripping it out for itself to consume.
Another powerful tremor, and he fell to the ground with hands covering his ears. It gave little respite. There was a vague awareness that Amanda had collapsed next to him too – or was that the Terran he just killed seconds ago?
He tried to look, but the world had turned a bright, searing white and certainly it would not matter since he was to be completely decimated. A bomb, a supernova, an eradication brought on by the cold universe – Sarek felt completely victim to the wheels of fate. At least he would end in a hot embrace, which reminded him briefly of home.
But just seconds later, the entity passed. The bellowing roar, the pressure, the light, the heat – it moved its searing gaze from him to the horizon.
Sarek took hungry breaths, and he heard Amanda before he saw her. Over the entity’s roar, her gasping, exuberant laugh rang clearly like a pealing bell.
Finally, Sarek looked up.
The entity was a starship, rather, though no less awe-inspiring because of it. It was a kaleidoscope of colors, mirrors, and gold that took up the entire sky. It was a marvel that it did not come crashing down under Terra’s gravitational embrace, or that Terra did not fall into the ship’s. From the hill on which the Grayson’s Villa stood, Sarek could see the tangible effects of their brushing against another – the torrential winds that bent trees in near half and the flickering of city lights, likely due to disruption of the planet’s electromagnetic field.
As the ship moved past, the clouds through which it sailed swirled and dissipated.
Leaving behind a clear, inky black sky with a smattering of stars.
The priest cried, “Let us exult under the devastating power of the Chariot, the loyal vessel of Emperor Sato. You have felt the Emperor’s presence as He glided above us, casting his light on us all. Now, behold - He has graced us with His devastating benevolence. He has granted you to look up – up! – and see all that belongs to you. To the Homeworld. To the Terran Empire.”
Sarek understood what it felt like to be drunk. Or, at the very least, wanting to be drunk.
At the priest’s words, a fire was lit amongst the party guests, and the festivities truly began. The air had still yet to still when the people entered a frenzy.
Dozens swarmed up the marble steps towards him, and Sarek flinched – fully expecting himself to soon be joining the corpses strewn about – as they grabbed at his clothes, his skin, his body.
Pushed down the slippery steps, Sarek was powerless. Their desires, passions, fears, and ecstasy screamed into his mind, and this was deafeningly worse than the Chariot ripping into the sky. He laughed, he shouted, he cried – he felt faces rip into his skin and rear back their ugly heads with a mighty roar. Drums reverberated in the air, or was it the heartbeats of these monstrous souls?
There was a fleeting moment when Sarek stumbled out of the crowd and caught himself against a pilar. Cool, fresh air soothed his burning lungs. His pseudo-intoxicated mind saw the world in whirling blurs and streaking lights. He struggled make sense of the sights around him.
There were half-naked women and men dancing across the grass, limbs flashing gold against the lit fires around the courtyard. Some were caught in a savage embrace with fists flying and blood spilling. Others were partaking in equally violent waltz with teeth biting on lips, thighs, breasts. A few took it slowly in the shadows, with a softer, though no less primal, rhythm than the drums.
A man was leaning against the pilar next over, with his mouth parted. Another was on his knees, his head bobbing in between the man’s legs.
The standing man looked at Sarek, his eyelids half-lidded. The man did not look away as he threaded his fingers through his lover’s curls and forced himself deeper in.
Sarek in a shuddering breath as he looked up at the miraculously clear skies.
The stars calmly gazed down over them all. A fixed point amongst the chaos. It was the first he saw the stars since being on Terra – he did not realize how long five months could feel until now. In that moment, Sarek could understand why many saw Emperor Sato as a god.
He could almost believe it himself, he thought, as a hand suddenly pulled him back into the throng.
In what felt like days later, Sarek finally escaped.
The festivities had spilled into the halls of the Grayson Manor itself like an infestation, and he staggered through its gaping mouth.
It was quieter inside. The drums and music dulled, leaving whispers, sighs, and moans. Some couples slipped in and out through doors like a spinning carousel, while others barely glanced at him walking by as they fucked against the wall. It wasn’t the frenzied orgy like outside, but rather something more – private. Intimate.
He did not know if he was in the north, east, or west wing. Like the rest of the villa, there were an endless amount of columns lining the halls and towering three times his height. The marble emitted a chill as well as the soft glow of moonlight that streamed from the ceiling high windows. Some were propped open, allowing a soft salty breeze to brush his skin.
The halls often opened into domed atriums with delicate paintings of skies along the curved surface. Archways then led to numerous galleries of paintings and statues, some of which even Sarek with his Vulcan education recognized. Though he was no connesoueir of Terran culture, it was clear that the items of the Grayson estate was likely worth millions of credits.
There were some rooms filled with the precise, yet soft strokes of stagnant scenes - a mother gazing down at a crib, a pond of lilies, men on their knees paving floors. The frames had no cracks, the paint no peels. The labels for each piece were carefully set and organized by date. After working for her for nearly half a Sol year, Sarek could recognize Amanda’s touch.
The rest of the rooms felt hollow. Artworks with no similarities jammed together and collecting dust. Owning for the sake of owning – and all the while calling it preservation.
If there was one good thing that came out of this forsaken holiday, it was that Sarek was doing what he has been meaning to do – learning more about the hosting family. Nothing can reveal more than the very home they have resided in for generations after stealing it from another wealthy, no-longer existing family (or so the rumors go –
Sarek was digressing. Focus.
There was a Kelpian standing guard at a stairwell. When Sarek tried to pass one, the Kelpian shifted to block Sarek’s way.
“I am required upstairs.”
It did not move, giving a simple shake of its head.
So Sarek went. Every other stairwell was blocked as well.
He watched and waited, until a Kelpian glided past him as soundless as a ghost. It switched with a Kelpian at their guardpost, and the freed one drifted down the hall.
It kept going, even when all the doors passed., and finally reached the very end where a wall stood blank and merciful saved from another abandoned artpiece.
It walked straight through the wooden wall as though it was nothing but air, leaving behind the faintest ripple of soft blue. A hologram.
Even Sarek’s clan home had secret halls for servants and clandestine needs. Some things were universal.
Still, the Grayson Villa was far more complex than he originally perceived. It had its face of opulence that was visible to any visitor, and then it had the spaces in between – the hidden passages, holographic doors, one-way mirrors. It was as duplicitous as its inhabitants, and also far more malignant than he expected. How anyone could live with such paranoia, one that was geared even to one’s own family, was beyond comfortable thinking.
This weakness of the Graysons allowed someone like him, a xenoform of admittedly seditious intents, to easily slip through the cracks and observe. Thus it was not long until he finally turned into a narrow corridor washed with dim light and raised voices.
“ – has gone long enough.” Sarek recognized Cato as the speaker. “This needs to be dealt with. Decisively. No matter the cost.”
There were panels of intricately gilded bronze that ran along the length of the room and allowed light to dimly filter through and illuminate the narrow servants’ hall Sarek was hiding in. The panels were conveniently at eye-level and only a few inches high. Careful to avoid being seen, he stepped closer and peered in.
Sarek was looking in to a personal office space of sorts.
Closest to him was an impressive desk and opposite was a fire that burned at the hearth. Cato leaned against the brick mantle. In the center were a handful of Starfleet officers who sat stiffly on arm cushions while in uniform. There was a table in between them where a holo filled the air.
“This cost is too high,” argued an officer, a thin, wiry man with brown-grey hair. He did not look like a fearsome warrior, but the tip of his nose was missing. “This is turning the holy streets of the Eternal City into a warzone!”
“The war is already here banging on our doorstep.” Cato twirled a thin knife in between his fingers as though it were a pen. “The Emperor needs to be reminded of that.”
“Then tell him! The Starfleet Command sessions – ”
Cato waved his hand dismissively. “Sato doesn’t attend military meetings. He would not know how the war goes until the Klingons break through our lines and hold him at execution, which could be in a matter of weeks if not days at this rate.”
Another officer leaned forward. Sarek could see her frown through the hologram as she inspected the plans.
It was a map of the Eternal City. Dots of light pulsed in sections of the City. Sarek scarcely blinked as his eyes traced over each one, committing each to memory. Rotating and compressing them into something he can pull up again later as needed.
“What you suggest is not a light matter, Chief. We would not be able to turn away from this.”
“Neither would Emperor Sato.”
The double doors at the side swung open – unexpectedly if the way they all stiffened had anything to do with it. The holograph shut down just as quickly.
It was Amanda, garbed in her crimson gown and a smile. And anger, Sarek recognized by the tightness of her mouth. She appeared remarkably put together given the orgy happening in her halls.
“Oh, go on,” Amanda said. “Don’t stop whatever discussion you are all having during a time of celebration. It must be important, especially since I was commanded here like some dog.”
Her words were directed at everyone in the room, but she was staring at her husband. Cato steadily gazed back, jaw clenched as the knife continued to spin between his fingers.
Another man, a round one with a red face and puffy lips, spoke. “This is a matter of internal security, sweetheart.”
Amanda cocked her head sharply at the name, as the man smacked his thigh and continued to the room, “I say enough of this dawdling and scheming! We need to take swift, decisive actions that would squash any form of dissent. Put their damn heads on spikes if we have to!”
“Enough, Coronel,” said Cato. He tucked in the holoprojector – no bigger than his thumb – into his pocket. “We speak of this no more.”
Amanda’s voice was gentle, soft. “Yes, why don’t you let more qualified individuals such as my husband take care of the local affairs, Coronel. If I recall correctly, you have pressing matters to address regarding your colonies. Do not think that Graysons Industries have not noticed a shortage in shipment from you.”
“Bah! We have decades before we’d need to worry about the dilithium supply. Andoria is as full of it as a bitch is with pups.”
“I’ve heard otherwise. Perhaps you speak of whatever new cadet you’re fucking now –”
“Amanda.” warned a deep, new voice.
The speaker sat at the desk, which until then Sarek had thought empty. The fire behind it casted them in a dark silhouette, so he started forward down the corridor and scaled along the perimeter of the room.
Everyone, including the indignant colonel, had fallen silent. All except for her.
“I’m sorry.” Amanda turned back to the Coronel. “Don’t you have some cadet you should be fucking right now, Coronel?”
The man jumped up and growled, “I will not – ”
“Clear the room.”
Amanda stood as taut as a wire, arms crossed and jaw locked, as the officers quickly stood and headed for the doors.
It was then that Sarek reached the other side of the room right by the fireplace, and saw who was able to herd the people like cattle.
Admiral Marcus Grayson was an aging man. Silver streaked through his hair like spun wire. Lines appearing around a firm mouth. Yet even when sitting he commanded a presence. Sarek had only seen a single holo of the Terran prior to his departure from Vulcan, and the man still carried a strength from back when he was a young general.
It was clear his daughter did not obtain her grace from this man. His presence was heavy and grave like a monolith.
“You as well, Chief.”
Amanda and Cato stared at one another. A voiceless conversation took place, and it ended with Cato bowing his head to the admiral and walking past his wife. It was difficult to read the expression on Amanda’s face, but it certainly was not warm.
For a moment, palpable silence stood between the two Graysons. Yet once the heavy wooden doors, Amanda immediately went on the attack. “You did not seriously decide to host a military meeting now of all times.”
“Behave yourself. You represent me when you speak so carelessly.” The admiral had a bluntness and a subtle air of patronization that his daughter carried as well. “A glutinous menagerie is in no way my concern, and neither should it be yours.”
“Mind you, this menagerie as you put it was supposed to be your responsibility as head of the household. You were expected to host, but I had to step up to ensure that our image is - ”
“We all have a duty to contribute to the war effort, and it’s time for you to take part in it.”
“There always is a war, Admiral.” There was an acridness to her words that came from familiarity of repetition.
“Not like this one.”
“In that case, then you should focus on your side of business. You must have a lot of upkeeping and other very tedious Starfleet duties that demands your attention. All things that are hardly of my concern.”
The two gazed at one another from across the room, neither bowing down.
Admiral Grayson spoke slowly, like a knife carefully cutting into meat. “Careful, Poppy. Those words could border on sedition. You work for the Empire. Anything related to the war is of your concern.” He sat back. “Effective immediately, you will fulfill your role as Interim Chairman of Graysons Industries -”
Amanda halted. “Leon - ”
“ – is offworld.” He tilted his head in a manner that was strikingly familiar. “Your brother left last week for the border to personally oversee the supply demand.”
“I’ve my own duties to complete. I will not just - ”
“I don’t care if you abandon your work with Level Forty-Seven or not, especially as local matters are far beneath your skillset and my concern. Handle it as you see fit, Poppy, so long as you get work done at the Industries. I’m certain you’ll be able to manage your time effectively to best serve the Empire.”
“I don’t give a damn - ”
Admiral Grayson stood, his fist banging on the desk’s surface with such force that its contents rattled.
“Enough,” Admiral Grayson said lowly, and Amanda remarkably remained silent. “I have let you run around this city to play with your books and host your parties. It’s time for you to wean off these diversions so that you do exactly what you were born to do and protect our legacy and assets. Not act like your deluded mother.”
The fire snapped and sparked as a log suddenly split in the center.
The Admiral sat back down. It was then that Sarek realized who Amanda inherited her set of intense, dark brown eyes. Similar, yet quite different, he thought, as Admiral Grayson continued, “Leon has held the reins far too long. He views business as another invention to enhance – all numbers and brute force. But you and I know that it takes a keener eye to see the minds of our competitors. For the sake of your children and their children, you need to ensure that there is a company for them to hold to when they are your age.”
Amanda was silent for a moment, and then – “What hold do you have on my husband?”
The elder Grayson exhaled. “I am tired of your insolence. Leave.”
Sarek went deeper into the servant halls and finally found an unmarked door that led him to an empty hallway. Bare of decoration, except for a vase of fresh roses, it showed a glimpse of the utilitarian patriarch.
After opening a few doors, Sarek slipped into a washroom to reflect. Once he shut the door behind him, Sarek immediately splashed his face with burning hot water. It was a poor replacement for the rays of Vulcan’s starlight and its dry heat, but the discomfort aided in settling his mind, in squashing down the contempt he felt towards this twisted planet and its inhabitants.
Admiral Grayson’s meeting gave light to quite a few things, particularly in regards to the intergalactic situation. It was the first real news Sarek had heard since being in the locked down planet of Terra. It confirmed the Coalition’s words that the Empire really was at full force war against the Klingons – not just some border skirmishes.
Secondly, that it was going poorly for the Empire. Very poorly. So much so that the Chief Praetor is calling for action.
The war is already here banging on our doorstep. The Emperor needs to be reminded of that.
Cato was trying to force the Emperor’s hand. Whatever he had in mind could not be good if even the other officers protested.
Perhaps Sarek would have heard more if Amanda’s presence did not immediately shut down the conversation.
She had clearly held contempt for – what, exactly? His Vulcan upbringing could only deduce so much about the Terran way of thought. Was it the topic of war? Being left out of the conversation? (He also remembered the accusatory look she casted her husband with, and filed it for later thought. It would take Sarek much longer than a night in trying to understand anything regarding Amanda Grayson.)
He was confident in concluding, however, that there was no fondness in either side between the Admiral and herself. Father and daughter.
Amanda was being pulled to lead Graysons Industries in the wake of the oncoming war… Where would that leave Sarek and the business of Level Forty-Seven? Where would that leave him and –
Sarek shut a heavy door on his ruminations, only barely taking note that the door took form of a familiar red one.
He stepped out of the washroom. He had decided to simply traverse the halls until he found anything of note, and he only took a single step before he was rendered in place, head tilting as he focused on the person standing a mere yard away.
No, not a person – a child. A young girl. Fascinating.
The Vulcan and the Terran considered one another, each equally wary. He estimated the young girl’s age to be no more than seven or eight Terran years.
She spoke first with a refreshing directness. “Are those real?”
She was staring critically at his ears. Her blonde curls shone brightly under the hall’s dim lighting, and her impish features contrasted with the look of suspicion on her face.
“A wasteful query. There is no purpose for the intentional alteration of ears.”
She frowned. “You talk weird. Are you a xenoform?”
“I am a Vulcan.” Sarek arched an eyebrow when the girl’s frown deepened. “Such a term is relative to the speaker. Thus, I am a xenoform to you, as you are to me.”
She tilted her head. “You’re a new servant? Do we own you?”
There was a growing sense of similarity in her features.
Sarek, while keeping the same three feet away, lowered himself to the ground. He balanced on his ankles, as he blatantly studied her face. Her dark, brown eyes were just as sharp, he thought.
“No,” Sarek said, just as a sharp, familiar voice down the hall snapped, “Claudia.”
The girl, Claudia, grimaced, while Sarek continued as though uninterrupted, “I work with your mother.”
He straightened and rose as Amanda stepped in between him and Claudia. Her gaze was sharp and almost accusatory.
Without looking away from him, Amanda demanded, “Claudia, what are you doing here?”
The girl was looking up at her mother, her mouth set in a sullen pout. Her hair, pale like her father’s, shone brightly in the dim light emitted from the lamp on her nightstand, as if it was soaking up all of its rays. “I saw grandpa arriving and I – ”
“You are supposed to stay in your room.”
“But I’m only home from school for a weekend – ”
“Claudia.”
“But who is – ”
Amanda turned her head and shot her a firm look.
The girl knew better than to object, though she cast a curious glance at Sarek before spinning around and retreating – though with dragged, reluctant steps.
Sarek waited until Claudia disappeared from view.
“I was unaware you had a daughter, Mrs. Grayson.” Sarek would confess that he took a measure of pleasure at seeing Amanda’s ired gaze fell back on him. “I recall quite clearly that upon my query you had denied even having a child.”
Her face cleared like a cleaned slate. The corner of her lips tilted up pleasantly, if not tightly, and her tone was misleadingly calm. “I’m afraid you recall incorrectly. I said no such thing.”
The lie was as blatant and unapologetic as the speaker.
“You assume I intend to harm her.”
“I assume only that you seem quite out of place. The entertainment is downstairs – I do so hope you have not find the night distressing.”
“‘Distressing’ is not the term I would choose. ‘Informative’ is more applicable.”
Amanda stepped forward until there was only a hair’s breadth between them. He could smell the tart wine in her breath, though she hid its effects well. She smiled prettily up at him. “Perhaps once you head back, I’ll meet you down there. I would so love to hear more about your – unique perspective.”
An offer – or a deflection.
Sarek inclined his head, and he did not miss how she paused in breath. “I will be waiting,” he answered graciously.
“You,” Amanda called out abruptly, snapping her fingers to a Kelpian who then suddenly appeared beside her. “Ensure that our guest finds his way back to the party.”
Returning to that menagerie, as the Admiral had aptly called it, was out of question. Leaving was logical. He had obtained profound intel, and his job here was done. And yet, he found himself – unsated.
Sarek had watched the child – her daughter – had headed toward the West Wing. So he did too, through the impressive maze of servant corridors.
The differences between the North and West Wings were stark. While the former was barren, the latter was filled with paintings. As Sarek inspected them, it was not difficult to discern precisely who chose these pieces.
He could recognize her touch, her eyes, her taste. See her standing in front of them, inspecting as he did now.
She had told him once that she liked pretty things. More specifically, she liked the soft, pretty things with hints of morbidity and mythology and anatomy. A decaying body with a gnarled tree root piercing through the eye socket. A serene humanoid with great, bird-like wings dozing in a meadow, unaware of the dark, blurred figure in the back. A pair of severed hands dripping with blood, grasping a bouquet of red poppies.
Pretty things.
Sarek strayed around corners and up flights of stairs with no particular destination in mind. He told himself it was necessary, as he opened doors and saw glimpses of a family’s soul. Their home laid bared to him, and surely knowing his enemies would help in the long run?
He reached the highest floor, where the windows in the hallway stretched up towards the ceiling and casted the pale glow of the now-visible moon.
Sarek paused, as he took note of a door that was slightly ajar and cast a beam of warm yellow light that bisected across the hallway. As he ghosted past it, he could barely make out the laugh of a child and of - her. Their hushed voices floated after him, like the sound of a rushing stream.
From behind him – from the stairwell where he came from– approached a set of footsteps.
Sarek swiftly walked down the hall, his hand lightly tugging on every passing door. They were all locked and unyielded to his touch.
The footsteps grew louder, and he could see light flickering down at the end of the hall, signaling some approaching figure –
Finally, a door gave way and he immediately slid in. The door closed gently behind him, and with it, all the noise and movement of the world.
He paused, ear pressed against the door. Only after silence confirmed that he was not spotted did he turn to inspect where he ended up.
The domed ceiling allowed the moonlight to bathe the circular room with its soft light. The soft blue walls appeared almost lavender at night, and the cream carpet was spotless. It it appeared to be a bedroom.
No, he corrected. A nursery.
There was a crib was pressed against the curved wall, its fine mahogany wood pristine. Next to it was an armchair draped with a small blanket. Crisply folded towels were folded on top of the wardrobe. Empty bottles were on the shelves.
Sarek walked over to the crib, and he rested his hand on top of the panel of wood and felt the cool, smooth grain. Above the crib was a little mobile, and his eyes followed as it gently spun about its wire. Small crafted birds hung from the arms, their thin paper wings fluttering as they spun.
It was the only thing that moved in the still, empty air. Around and around it went, until it became so taut that it would slowly stop, like lungs holding their breath. And then a beat later, it would spin backwards and unwind itself to repeat the process once more.
The room, which appeared painstakingly organized and maintained, inexplicably felt hollow. As if Sarek was the first to even step inside it.
The birds slowed to a stop, and then began to pirouette the other direction.
The lights and shadows danced on the floor, as the wind outside rustled the branches. Closing his eyes, Sarek could hear the soft rustlings of the mobile, as the paper birds spun.
His eyes fell upon a golden H that hung on the wall.
Could Amanda –
No, she could not be. She drank lavishly tonight. She behaved with obvious maternal protectiveness regarding her daughter.
Sarek thought of Claudia, and how the young girl shared the same eyes as her mother.
Sarek, in his time on Terra, has learned many unexpected things about Amanda Grayson. Including that Amanda Grayson is protective, yet daring. Sharp, yet yielding. Unforgiving, yet can be reasoned with (at least, when she wants to be).
With these characteristics in mind, the revelation that Amanda was a mother was somehow almost… obvious.
Before, it was easy to assume that Amanda was driven solely by a Terran-typical drive for conquest and power. Having a child, however, that she evidently cared for – well, that added an entirely new variable into his already deficient proof regarding the formula of Amanda Grayson.
Suddenly, he heard a set of light footsteps in the hallway – growing louder and closer.
Sarek moved without thought, stepping away from the moonlight and back against the shadows.
The door swung open and shut just as quickly.
Standing beside the curtains, Sarek watched as Amanda drifted in. Her steps were slower, heavier than usual. The smell of alcohol clung onto her like perfume.
She set an empty glass on the table, kicked off her heels, and then tumbled into the arm chair in a cloud of silk and limbs. She sunk back into the cushions as if she was being swallowed up. Her dark hair, loose from its strict bun, appeared as light and soft as clouds.
Still, Sarek watched from the edges as though in the presence of a le-matya.
He watched, as she pulled out a cigarette and lit it with steady hands. Her eyes were up at the sky, her chin tilted up, as she inhaled. Her exhale was a sigh of smoke. The white stick dangled from her fingers lazily, and she flicked the ash into her empty glass.
Sarek was certain that Amanda knew he stood there. Sarek wasn’t hiding – he stood plainly against the wall. If anyone in their right mind looked over, they’d see him. But neither seemed to want to immediately address one another, or to break the still peace that had settled.
To antagonize one another here, in this room, seemed inappropriate.
It wasn’t until her third draw of the cigarette that Sarek spoke, his low voice still too loud in the air. He had to confirm it. “You are not expecting.”
“I am not.” Amanda flicked the cigarette. “Do you really think me to be so bad a mother?”
He finally walked forward, until he reached the low table in front of her. It stood between them. “I do not,” Sarek answered truthfully, pausing his movements. “I consider it as one of your redeeming qualities.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think being a good mother equates being a good person? How whimsical! Are there any other qualities I should know about?” But just as quickly, she shook her head. “Never you mind. I don’t want to know.”
Sarek moved closer, until he stopped in front of her. She watched unabashedly as he squatted beside her chair so that their gazes were levelled. Her eyes were intense, as they met his and stayed.
He reached for the cigarette in her hand, and she relinquished it surprisingly easily. She had forgone her usual gloves for the festivities, and a burst of warmth tingled up his fingertips as his skin brushed over hers.
She smelled of ash.
“A son or a daughter?”
The stick was warm, but he soon tossed it in her empty glass. Its light faintly smoldered just for a second, before its flame was snuffed out. Smoke trailed from its end like a final wave.
“A son. My first child.”
“He died.”
“Yes. He was born seven weeks early. The world was too heavy for him, and his lungs were too fragile. He didn’t make it through his first night.”
“I grieve with thee.”
She regarded him, as if attempting to parse the sincerity of his words.
Nearly every time Sarek was alone with Amanda, he was struck with the matter of Amanda’s eyes. It was illogical to say that her eyes carry weight, but it was the truth as he saw it.
As true as the moon that shined above them, as she finally asked, “Have you ever lost a child?”
“No.”
“Then how could you - grieve with me?” Amanda asked, in a soft, mocking tone. “I don’t believe you are even capable of feeling such a thing.”
Perhaps she was right. To claim he ever felt anything that could compare would be erroneous. Even the death of his father, though unpleasant, was dealt with. Folded away and discarded.
“A child on Vulcan is rare, at least in comparison to Terrans.” Vulcan was a harsh, terrible planet to survive on. In consequence, it was in his people’s biology to spend all of their physical and mental resources to have few children that would survive rather than many that would fail. A seven-year mating cycle. An eleven-month incubation period. “It is considered to be a job for the entire clan to raise and protect a child. In both a societal and biological standpoint, a loss is – costly. It is mourned.”
Amanda frowned, staring at her fallen cigarette with faint longing. “’Costly’? I suppose that covers it quite well. But it was also a mercy, for even if he had survived, he would be too small, too weak to thrive this world.” Her eyes slid back to his. “I was only seventeen at the time. I confess I had never wanted a child, even as I carried him.”
Sarek did not understand this confession. It was clear, by the intensity of her unwavering eyes, that she was looking for something in him. Pity? No, she hated that. Perhaps horror? Maybe she hoped to shock him, as she always tried.
But he felt nothing – nothing except fascination.
He was reached with the age-old question: Did Sarek believe her?
Amanda had a flair for exaggeration and fabrication on all manners of conversation – serious, casual, humorous. Even when she gained nothing from doing so, he was certain she did it out of defense, if not for sheer amusement. It made her a wildly unreliable source for information, especially when she gave it so freely.
Sarek decided that for this particular case, it did not matter whether she was being entirely truthful. What was really important was sincerity. Her son was not here, that was certain. But was she truly upset ambivalent or relieved about it, as her words suggested?
She had said these words, yet here was this room, carefully maintained and preserved for the past eight years. His eyes fell on the golden H.
Amanda followed his gaze. “For Harold,” she scoffed. “Cato had decided on it, after my father’s middle name. I never liked it. I preferred Henry.”
“Henry,” repeated Sarek. Her eyes flickered back to his, as he stated, “You did not wish to have children, yet you still had a daughter.”
“We may come from different worlds, but we both are slaves to expectations. Surely, you understand that.”
He inclined his head as a way of answer. Producing an offspring was a simple need of biology – but producing an heir was a demand to society. Even he, as she said, could understand that.
“Then why the secrecy?” Sarek questioned. “Why hide the fact you have a child?”
“Because desperate people will try to gain power in whatever way they can, even if it means harming children. Blackmail, kidnap, assassination – the options are endless for a young girl like Claudia,” Amanda said bluntly. “Therefore, it is quite custom for a Patrician family to refrain from presenting their child to the public until they reach adulthood. I didn’t claim my family name until I was sixteen.”
The existence of Claudia Grayson (he was certain the child would be given this notorious name rather than the name of orphan Cato Eternal) was none when it concerned public records. Sarek briefly considered what would occur if he told T’Priah and the Coalition about the child… and every option Amanda listed was quite possible.
As if she read his mind, which was very not possible, Amanda continued with a hint of sharpness, “And I suppose it goes without saying that if anything were to happen to her because of a slip of tongue, I will have you skinned, yes?”
“Understood.” Sarek recalled a small piece of information that Claudia revealed. “She is hidden from society, yet attends school away from home?”
Amanda leaned her head back over the armrest and let out a sigh. “You are annoyingly observant.”
“Is that custom?”
Amanda took a moment to reply, and when she did, her lips were pressed in a line. “Not particularly. It was my – father’s idea. Well, order really. It was to ensure she gets the best education and advantage for when she inevitably becomes Admiral of Starfleet or CEO, or hell, even the Empress. He would love that.”
“As patriarch, he is ensuring the longevity of a great legacy,” he said.
“Of course you agree with him.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“It is a fine, objective choice. Duty outweighs personal attachment.”
Amanda suddenly lifted her head and looked straight at him. The heat of her words was unexpected. “He did it for leverage on me,” she hissed. “There is nothing objective about it.”
“Yet your child is away – safe and educated. There are worse places for her to be.”
Did Amanda not see the privilege she had? He was truly curious. Amanda was perhaps one of the few people in the City to know about the cost of the Terran Occupation. She learned the culture and history of worlds that her people have razed - and here she was lamenting about her child being too safe. About being tied down to duty.
Amanda shook her head firmly, but she took a deep breath and sunk back down. “She is not safe away from me. A visit one weekend a month is not enough. I can’t teach her how to protect herself or about what this world is truly like beyond these walls.”
“Who taught you?”
“My mother. What about you?”
The image of a bloodied, elder Vulcan entered his mind. “My father.”
“Funny,” she said. “How they’re both dead.”
As Sarek attempted to ascertain what precisely was so humerous about the dead status of their progenitors, Amanda looked at his stoic face and broke out into a short laugh. A bright, airy thing that rang and echoed in the domed room.
Conversing with Amanda Grayson was not unlike the Vulcan Forge, where lightning storms could blow in in seconds and then disappear and leave behind a tranquil, still scene as though nothing occurred. Keeping pace with her sudden mood changes was an entire mental exercise of itself. How did Terrans not get incapacitated by such pivots? They leapt and bounded over these twists while he felt like a tumbling child.
But as he listened to her laugh and observed the way she covered her smile with her palm, Sarek came to the conclusion that perhaps a Terran’s joy was preferable than their rage. Less of a hostile terrain, more of a playground of sorts.
It was rare that Amanda would ever reveal so much. It was likely the wine. Or maybe it was the moonlight.
It blurred lines and sharp edges. She softened, and so did he.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed out in the halls, and they both stilled. It drew closer, and Sarek immediately made to stand, but Amanda’s hand caught his forearm.
Her grip was firm, and Sarek, though tense, stayed.
She whispered, “Cato doesn’t like this room. I think it unsettles him.”
It wasn’t until the sound of a far door opened and closed, that Sarek settled back down on the ground in front of the armchair. His arm rested on the chair, where Amanda’s hand remained.
The thought of removing her touch passed through his mind. Inexplicably, he did not.
Instead, he gazed at her hand. He could see the blue veins and tendons on the back of her hand. The whiteness of the skin taut over knuckles. The gleaming ruby ring that crowned her finger. All the while, he felt the weight of her own gaze on him.
If she were Vulcan, she would be able to feel whatever underlying emotions he held beneath her palm. It made him vulnerable, whether she was Vulcan or not.
She stretched out her left leg like a cat. Her mouth tightened in a firm line, as she attempted to swallow down her wince.
“How is your injury faring?”
Amanda shifted, a distracting sight as her gown slid across her body.
His eyes caught against her bare thigh, which was still daringly exposed from her hip high slit. The way she wore it was undoubtedly intentional. It begged a question – one that would appear even in his mind unbiddenly:
Was she wearing anything else underneath?
His eyes lingered far too long. He knew this as soon as he met her amused eyes.
Thankfully, she did not say anything damning. Instead, Amanda let go of his arm and held out her hand.
Sarek must be getting accustomed to the Terran’s leniency of touch, as he – rather naively, in hindsight – gave his hand to her.
How could he not? Or more concisely, why shouldn’t he? Logically, there was little meaning in either accepting or denying this urge. It was only –
In a brazen motion, she pressed his palm down on her thigh. Right on top of her fresh scar.
Sarek briefly closed his eyes, the only visible sign of a flinch displayed, as her tangled emotions crashed into him like a sandstorm.
Typically, Sarek could read a person quite well, especially when it was a Terran. Terrans were quite complex in terms of range of emotions they carry, but the sheer volume made them easy to read. They typically had the capacity to feel one strong emotion at a time – anger, joy, lust, confusion.
He most ardently wished that were the case here. From Amanda, he instead felt a seeping, bone-melting warmth. It was like lying on a warm bed of sand an hour after sunset – when the fine particles still retained some of the day’s heat without it being scorching. Sarek felt like his past pet sehlat, I-chaya, who had favored sleeping outside every night burrowed in the warming sand.
Her emotions themselves were muddled. Her thoughts were muddled.
She was, in the definition of the word, intoxicated. And the sensation was inevitably seeping into him as well.
Her voice was distant, as though he was underwater.
“It’s not so bad,” she said.
His eyebrows furrowed, barely.
Ah. Her wound, he remembered.
“Is there still discomfort?” Sarek asked, only partly aware of the conversation as he focused on another strange thing lurking in her. It was another form of intoxication that was not so dissimilar as a Terran drinking alcohol. But this kind was more languid. It was like a long, knee-shaking stretch that rippled across one’s spine.
Recognition struck him violently.
She was still feeling the high of being sated – the high that came from sex.
“The ache is almost pleasant,” she answered.
His hand, which easily spanned across the width of her thigh, tightened. His thumb swept across her silky-smooth skin, as he pressed down on her tender, healing muscle.
Her sharp inhale was loud in the quiet room, and a flash of aching pain ran from her to him. The velvet fabric rippled across her stomach, as her body stiffened.
The Vulcan part of him that confused bloodthirst and lust wanted to press harder – to hurt her even more until she cries out and her bones shift –
Amanda’s laugh was quiet, breathless. “Darling, if you’re trying to hurt me, you’re going to have to do better than that. I’ve known pain since I was a child, and I have the scar to prove it.” Her dark eyes gleamed in the dark, as she raised an arm to lazily tuck behind her head. “Find it. Go higher.”
Like a slave to her words, Sarek moved.
The sound of skin brushing against skin was improperly loud, as his palm brushed up her warm thigh. His hand hesitated when he reached her hip. His thumb brushed against the raised bone, while the tip of his small finger stroked against the crease that marked where her pelvis and leg met. Should he slide down to under the folds of her dress, he could surely know the answer to the question:
Was she wearing anything beneath?
But with a steel resolve he brushed over the cinch of her dress and met the soft flesh of her stomach.
He could feel her ribs and the divets in between.
He went up and up, until his thumb brushed against the underside of her breast.
Amanda, at some point, stopped breathing.
But with a cool resolve, Sarek tilted his head, and instead of moving to the front of her chest, he slipped his hand underneath to the smooth skin of her back.
She arched her spine in response. She was maddingly warm like heat-soaked silk.
Abruptly, smooth skin gave way to something raised, taut, and firm. He traced the tough line of skin from her hipbone, across her spine, all the way to the tip of her shoulder blade.
Underneath his touch, the scarred tissue was dead. The nerves were long unresponsive from trauma and disuse.
But the skin around the scars were a different story. Bundles of neurons were alit, signals pulsing unprompted from and shooting down axon to axon. A miniscule amount of electricity was sending her neurons ablaze in an atypical, erratic fashion. With enough prompting, or when the composite signal surpassed a threshold, it would trigger an involuntary, likely painful spasm.
Though the wound was years old, it still felt inflamed. Angry.
He slid his hand back, until it was resting against her side.
Her bones felt so light, so brittle. He could snap her by just a miscalculated squeeze of his hand. Sarek would be untruthful if he didn’t consider it, in that cold, curious way of his. How much pressure would he need to apply to break her rib? Her wrist?
His gaze met hers briefly.
Her neck?
These were only questions, of course.
“Sarek,” Amanda said lightly, rolling to her side and propping her head up with her elbow. She was much closer now – her face just inches from his. “Clarify – have you ever fucked before?”
Sarek narrowed his eyes.
Her smile widened. “Ah, I forget you have – pon farr and what not. Now, have you ever kissed anyone before?”
“Vulcans do not share such oral fixations as Terrans. It is unsanitary and unappealing.”
“Well, now. How can you say that if you never tried it?” She nuzzled her cheek into her arm, her eyes not straying from his. “Come on now. I promise I won’t bite – I’m very gentle.”
“You are evidently very inebriated.”
Despite Sarek’s levelled tone, his body was beginning to respond to her words. His pulse quickened and his warm blood was beginning to raise a degree.
Sarek breathed in, staring steadfastly at her languish form.
Was she as malleable as she appeared? Soft, like warm wax?
“And you, my darling, are blushing. Where is that austere, principled Vulcan in pursuit of curiosity? How can you make a claim without a bit of experimentation?”
My darling, his blood whispered. My – darling. Mine. Mine –
“Your husband, surely, would not be pleased with such a transgression.”
“Not at all – it’s hardly uncommon for husbands and wives to obtain a lover or two.”
“Even with a Vulcan?”
She paused.
Just barely, but it was enough.
Something rolled into his chest. Sarek prodded it and inspected it. It was difficult to name, but he could describe it only as thick and bitter and ugly and spiteful like acid.
He did not think such thoughts would show on his face, but Amanda smiled softly. It was horribly – insultingly – sweet, not unlike when she indulged her child’s complaints moments ago.
“Oh,” Amanda sighed, almost regretful. “I forgot you were a romantic.”
Suddenly, a strong desire arose in him. It was strange, wanting to hurt someone.
Yes, he wanted to hurt her. He could not stop himself. He did not want to.
“Clarify,” Sarek said. “Is your conquest of Xenoculture motivated by academic pursuits, or is it because you are so dissatisfied with all aspects of your own life that you seek gratification from something – anything – other?”
He succeeded. He could see the tightness of her eyes, her mouth, as she settled back down into the armchair. As she put on the mask that she wore so devastatingly. It reminded him to put on his own as well.
“I never thought I would see a Vulcan jump to conclusions. And my, what a jump that was!” She gave a ringing laugh. “I think it best for you to leave, in case you wrong another Terran. One who wouldn’t respond to insults as generously as I.”
As Sarek made his way back to the gardens of the Grayson’s Villa where his shuttle waited, Sarek passed by strewn bodies on the ground. Some were clothed, others naked. Some were weeping, others were exalting. Some were alive, and some were dead.
Yet his eyes were not on the ground but rather up at the stars.
They shone brightly, as though aware that their time in the Terran skies was limited and wanting to compensate for lost time. He could see even Alam’ak. His home star.
He passed by several who sung to the stars odes of love and adoration that promised them riches and glory. Reinvigorated by the gifts bestowed by their emperor, they embraced their religion.
He reminisced the delight (who would ever have thought he used that word) at his and her’s back-and-forth. At seeing his words land a blow. He barely noticed the way his lame arm trembled.
Pain and pleasure – pleasure and pain.
They are the same thing.
Are they not?
The scent of roses and sea salt greeted him, and Sarek felt as though he found something sacred, too.
Notes:
I'm alive! And so is A Mirror Stained Red. I'm so sorry for being a bit of a story hog - I've been sitting on this chapter for months refusing to let it go and give random tweaks here and there when I find the time. But finally I've let her out into the world, and I hope you guys enjoy this hefty chapter! It's not perfect, but it's been long enough.
It's been a busy year in school, but this summer I hope to have a bit more time to send out some updates along the way. The next chapter isn't as bulky as this one, so I hope to have it out much sooner!
Let me know what you guys think :) Even if its been months since an update, I promise I do check-in to ao3 every few days and see the wonderful things you guys write. You all keep me going!
Chapter 14: colors
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
>>> SHORT-RANGE TRANSMISSION SENT BY ADM. MARCUS GRAYSON.
Take care in questioning your orders. Remember where you would be if it were not for me.
>>> RECEIVED BY PRAETOR CATO CAELUS.
“Are you certain these are the locations you saw?”
“I am certain,” Sarek answered. “My memory is clear – these are the locations Admiral Grayson was inspecting.”
The floating map spun slowly in the air, allowing all of the two dozen attendants an optimum view. It was projected above the rickety cardboard box that acted as the Coalition’s strategy table. It The landmass shone was like that of a mouth or a closing claw with two peninsulas – a north and south. It bit down to separate a small body of water, the Eternal Bay which was once known as the Bay of San Francisco, from the ocean.
The south peninsula was where the Eternal City stood. It was where most of its citizens resided, including Sarek, as well as the governmental complexes. The northern peninsula had Polara, a smaller metropolis that Sarek has only heard of in the wayward advertisements that bombard civilians on the streets and media. He’s only ever heard of it when associated with leisure activities – theaters, orchestras, museums, and even retirement homes. Those, as well as from Claudia Grayson herself, an attendant of Polara Academy for Fine Youths.
Three red dots blinked incessantly over Polara, as if winking.
T’Priah’s pointy features were accentuated with angles of shadow and light. “Is this all?”
“I have reported everything I had heard in that meeting," replied Sarek, an edge to his tone. "There is dehiscence among these Military officials and the Emperor. They want the Emperor to push harder."
Sarek turned to the table. "Do these locations contain any significance? Any insurgent activity, perhaps?”
Voq stood opposite to Sarek, his white hands laced over his mouth. His eyes shone red as he slowly shook his head. “A tea shop. A plant nursery. A waxing center,” he mused. “All owned by respectable Terrans, of course – they must be to live in such a luxurious area. We have few of our own stationed out there and none in these specific locations. We have been decreasing activity these past few weeks due to increased security presence throughout the city. As the war is reaching its peak, the Emperor seems to not be taking any chances.”
“Even in the Underground,” noted Felir, a young Orion still in his adolescence. “There are more undercover guards and less Patricians in the crowds. My father says others are noticing this and business is less nowadays.”
Voq straightened. “A source from Starbase 46 sent a crypted message three weeks ago that has only arrived yesterday. Five imperial starships were towed back there for demolition. She said that they came with irreparable damages from a battle.”
“Maybe the war is going badly,” laughed a Tellerite raucously. “We’ve been getting reports such as that for months.”
Suddenly, dozens of voices were piping up.
“That means we should only increase our efforts!”
“You dolt – didn’t you hear that surveillance is increasing – ”
“We need more people – ”
“More weapons – ”
“What the fuck do those dots means?”
“Let them fight on both fronts! One at the front and one up their – ”
“Enough,” rumbled Voq, slapping the projector. The cardboard box precauriously shook, as the map projector shut off.
Voq stood. “What we have learned tonight is that something is brewing and does not involve us. Here, right now. Thus, we wait. We hide. We will all remain still to see what will occur these next few weeks, which may prove pivotal for the Empire.”
“I’m sick of hiding,” shouted an Andorian, which was answered to by cheers. “We’re supposed to be doing something, offering help to others – not cowering in the sewers! We need to – ”
“Survive,” growled Voq, his deep voice echoing off the metal walls. He waited until silence fell, observing the restless, shifting crowd. “This is an empire that has swallowed hundreds of light years into its ever-hungry belly. There are dozens of cells just like us, waiting and biding time. If one cell falls, then they will root out the rest and all will be for naught. Surviving is all we can do until we are united.”
He paused, an obvious invitation to speak protests. But no one spoke. “Be gone, my weary friends, and go home cautiously. The night is dark, and our enemies thrive in it.”
“Sarek,” Voq called, as everyone slipped into the black, hollow tunnels. “A moment, if you please.”
T’Priah casted Sarek one look before disappearing.
Sarek nodded and returned to his earlier position.
Voq let out a deep exhale, raising his hands to rub his temples. There was a weight on his shoulders and in his eyes.
Sarek watched silently, as Voq reached into his coat, pulled out a metal, glinting object, and offered it to Sarek.
It was a flask.
Sarek raised an eyebrow, to which Voq responded by pulling it back and raising it to his lips. He waited, as Voq’s loud gulps filled the empty air.
Finally, he lowered it with a long sigh. “Forgive me, I forget Vulcans do not partake.”
“There is little appeal in alcohol for my people, considering it does not offer the same intoxicative properties to us as it does to most species.”
“That is a terrible life,” Voq noted bluntly. “To view this tragic universe sober.”
“Better than through flawed judgement.”
“Perhaps. I suppose then I understand why your kind welcomes the restricted emotion lifestyle. No species can live as long as and see so much as Vulcans do without going insane.”
Sarek didn’t reply to that. It was a valid conjecture but not without errs stemming from oversimplification.
“It goes against who I am as a Klingon to choose to hide,” stated Voq. “It is not easy for me to choose this way – but it is the only way if we are to make it off of the damned planet.”
“I agree with your decision. We are far outnumbered in the heart of the Terran Empire to make much of long lasting effect.”
“Indeed.” Voq laced his fingers once more and gazed at Sarek not unlike he did with the map. “I wish you did not accept the Graysons’ invitation to that dinner.”
That was surprising. “I have gained valuable insight from doing so – including the locations I told you.”
“Your actions have raised many concerns.”
Sarek’s mouth marginally tightened. He straightened and countered, “Consul T’Pau had given me orders to observe, and that suggests gaining Amanda’s trust. That has always been my mission, even prior to knowing the Coalition’s existence.”
“You aided her into finding one of our hideouts. You saved her life. You sat beside them for dinner. Ate the same food. That does not suggest simply observing.”
“My orders were to observe, not to impede. I confess I provided my assistance but doing so has – in my belief – led to more gains than loss.”
“You could have let her died.” Voq’s stare did not waver. “Her attack was unrelated to you or us, and a Grayson could have been removed from the picture. The same Grayson that has had a hand in several raids on our people. She is useful to spy on, but not useful enough to outweigh the damages.”
Sarek had considered this debate several times during his mediations. In the moment when he held her bleeding form, his decision to save Amanda’s life seemed – frankly – quite evident. Her life was valuable - he knew that instantly and acted on it. But why was it valuable? Why was she valuable? That was where his arguments became... convoluted.
“I disagree,” Sarek stated carefully. “With her death, we would not find a Terran as accessible as her with so many connections and influence. I was also aware that should I not have saved her, I would have likely been killed myself. It would be my word against two dead Terrans – and I would undoubtedly lose.”
Even if Sarek didn’t kill Ezra and managed to get out alive, the Terrans would surely believe whatever the child boy said over himself.
“Many, including T’Priah, have expressed concerns by how close you are growing to Amanda Grayson. They believe you to be compromised.”
“T’Priah has seen my mind and know my desire for the Empire to fall is genuine.”
Voq remained silent for a few moments, his ice-white irises frozen onto him. Finally, he said, “I have found from dealings with your kind that Vulcans think in terms of white and black – logic and illogic, correct and wrong, enemy and friend. Yet there your people have difficulty seeing the grey of things. There are times when it becomes less clear to define the situation – or the person. It becomes more confusing when you are an agent on both sides.”
“I have been an agent of both sides since my upbringing, Voq,” Sarek said steadily. “I am not one to be blindsided – not like my brother.”
“But not even your brother is being tested as you are now." The Klingon sighed. "Do you know why Terrans are so dangerous?”
“Many would say because they are hateful, spiteful beings incapable of compassion or control.”
“Yet?”
“Yet they are much more.” Sarek took a moment to formulate his words. “They love, they hate, they destroy, and they grow.”
Voq slowly nodded. “They are not mindless, bloodthirsty animals as many of us make them out to be. They have all of our qualities – a Klingon’s bravery, a Vulcan’s logic, an Andorian’s perseverance, and much more. It’s what makes them so seductive. We cannot help but want to be as free as them. But what their downfall ultimately will be is their lust for glory. And I’ve seen only a very few individuals like who are like the Amanda Grayson I hear about. If she is anything like I believe she is, then I know that she does not have that lust. That is what makes Terrans like her most dangerous, because then – we do not know what it is that she fights for.”
Sarek knew what it was. It was the only thing – the only person that can coax a song out of her. Her name hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he could not bring himself say it.
Voq did not address Sarek’s silence. Instead, he concluded, “From now on, you will not be allowed into these meetings anymore. Should you have information to provide, you will seek out T’Priah, and in turn she will update you as needed. I am a careful Klingon, Sarek, as I’m sure you know. I do not like to take chances, but I have not had a true reason to kill you yet.”
“I had thought that the Coalition was against harming Xenoforms.”
“We are – but right now, with our position so precarious, we cannot afford to be limit ourselves.” Voq nodded out towards the tunnels. “Now go. Before I change my mind.”
The Emperor’s gift to part the skies had waned two days after. The noxious clouds silently and smoothly smothered the stars. The celebrations lasted the rest of the week, however, with bodies hanging from ledges or strewn about the streets like torn confetti.
It would not have been a good celebration without some casualties, or so say the Terran people.
Level Forty-Seven, on the other hand, was unblemished.
Sarek arrived the first day back, and then the mousy Rebecca (who studiously – fearfully, perhaps – ignored him as always) scuttled through the red door as well.
And lastly Amanda, who gave Sarek the same greeting she had since Saturnalia over a week ago – a cool, short glance that revealed very little of the intimate night they had shared.
A part of him admired that. The part that had trained for decades to confine any emotions behind a wall made so thick that he could continue his day with little awareness of that side of the wall. It was efficient, to forget about the empty crib. The silkiness of her skin. The fire of her soul he could feel with every touch.
Another part, a part that he desired to be buried but would not, was ired. As a Terran, she should be raging at him. Or brushing up even closer. Demanding – something from him for the vulnerability she showed to him.
Unless revealing these to him meant so little to her. Then, he could see how the Terrans could be capable of performing cruelties with scarcely a blink.
It also was apparent that she was equally uninterested in her father’s orders to put Level Forty-Seven behind and leap into the family business.
As the days passed, he spent more time than he cared to admit if it would finally be the day she took leave. But after a week, the day never came, and Sarek began to dismiss his restlessness. Not only was it inappropriate to be interested in another’s affairs, it was also unacceptably fruitless.
When she strode in that morning, he saw only a wisp of her silk skirt before she disappeared into her office.
Sarek was working on translating a series of written Vulcan communications that were undoubtedly sieged upon surprise inspections. They were from his homeworld, which he noted from the distinct russet colored paper that were formed from the clay and plants of the Vulcan Forge. He currently read what appeared to be a Vulcan grocery list. Disregarding the writer’s usage of a forbidden language, it would have been mundane – harmless – to have in one’s possession. But as Amanda had reminded him when she gave him this assignment, why would a Vulcan even require such a list with their high-capacity minds?
“Did you know that the Orions had created a chromophore three millennia ago that revolutionized space trade?”
She had been locked in her office all day, and there was an itch to see what beheld her attention. However, he did not raise his head from the task in front of him, knowing that was precisely what she wanted. “I did not.”
Ivek'a, trilt, skaina.
Quilt, soap, salt.
“The chromophore, sinathri, could be altered easily to make hundreds of colors, each so vivid and otherworldly that it carried a spiritual weight in their culture. But as it often happens, it become commercialized, and the demand outgrew even the drug and slave trade combined. A whole economy grew from this venture, but with that so did competition. It led to a Color War, or the Oanisk’r Venetra, as the Orions call it.”
Sarek waited for her to continue, but seconds then minutes passed in silence.
Withholding a sigh, Sarek straightened and met Amanda’s gaze.
She was leaning against the doorframe of her office. There was blood – no, paint – on the soft curve of her forearm. It shined brightly. A thin brush with only a handful of strands dangled between her fingers.
From behind her, he could see the back of a canvas and easel. Her hair was artfully tied up, revealing the arches of her neck.
“How did this Oanisk’r Venetra end?”
“Wonderfully,” she said, gesturing back to her painting. “For my hobbies, and, of course, for the Denobulans. They like to appear timid, but the Denobulans were far superior in technology and science. They were able to make more faster and cheaper, and the Orions didn’t see them eating away at their technology like mites. The Orions were raped of their holy sinathri and had to resort to prostitution and trafficking to survive. Devastating, isn’t it?” Her amused tone suggested anything but.
“Economical,” he said, “would be a better term.” A quality that he could appreciate.
His eyes fell on her mouth, which carried a ghost of a smile at his words.
The Red Door swung open and then shut with a resounding thud. Rebecca slipped in the room like a waif.
It was the usual time that the mousy assistant arrived from the Academy. The girl shot Sarek an accusatory look before handing an envelope to Amanda.
“Oh, and what’s this?” Before Rebecca could respond, Amanda unfolded the slip of paper. On the back of the sheet was the emblem of Starfleet.
Was this it? The final directive from Admiral Grayson to remove her things?
But Amanda only frowned. “Ah. Did her messenger find you?”
“Yes.” The young student rocked to one leg, and only then did Sarek notice she was trembling.
“I see.” Amanda stood and walked up to the girl and grabbed her chin, revealing the finger-shaped bruises that painted Rebecca’s neck.
A bitter heat – an emotion that Sarek has intimately been aware of since his time on Terra – flared at the sight of Amanda’s skin against another’s.
He flicked the feeling aside, like a pesky insect.
Her messenger. Who was this ‘her’?
“Thank you, Rebecca. You did well.”
Hardly, thought Sarek.
“Toss this in the furnace, will you?”
The weakling still shook like a leaf as she fled to the back.
“What news?”
Amanda glanced at him, her eyebrow cocked. “You think because we had a little heart-to-heart a week ago that suddenly you are privy to all my secrets?”
Naturally, the first time she spoke of Saturnalia would be in such a blasé manner.
“Is that what that is?” His eyes flickered to where Rebecca retreated with the note.
“I know emotions and sentiment isn’t your species strong suit, so don’t overthink it, darling.”
Is irritation the word to describe his urge to grab Amanda and throw her against the wall and –
Best not to dwell, he told himself, stifling such passionate thoughts.
At the end of the day, after Amanda had swept out with barely a parting word, Sarek was left alone with the mouse.
Sarek had thought through the benefits and risks of what he was about to do. There were many adverse outcomes that could occur if he were to make a mistake. Human minds were different from Vulcans, far more nebulous and unpredictable.
But he had done it before, and this was necessary.
Rebecca was not.
It would be best if she were asleep, and she was far too awake, her attention on the book in her hands. Yet this was the next best option – to be distracted by a hypnotic, ritualistic task such as reading.
Sarek was behind her, cleaning his space of ink and paper. He made his movements and sounds rhythmic and soft, like the cadence of wildlife at night.
Rebecca only had time to jerk back into her chair when his hands snuck around and pressed against her cheeks. He gripped her jaw fiercely, extinguishing the terror as quick as a candle.
That’s all she was, he felt. A weak, dim light of petty fears, infatuation, and ambition.
He buried her consciousness, holding on tight as she went slack in the chair.
The memory was fresh, easy to find. Hazy in the way human memories were.
-how she hated that – being late. Ms. Grayson would be waiting for her, and she has been off since last week. Since that Vulk was invited to her home. She had been working for her for years and never had she –
A hand gripped her - their - throat and stole their air.
“For your mistress,” cooed a voice in their ear. They squabbled up at the hand fruitlessly. “My own is not patient. She expects her tonight.”
Sarek jumped ahead, knowing that the mouse could not, would not resist a peek when her mistress was concerned.
Small, shaking fingers slipped between the edges of the folded paper.
Their eyes skimmed the words. The Bitter Baron, 1900
Sarek arrived at The Bitter Baron early. Out toward the rims of the city, the tavern was tucked in the lowest floor of a motel. Close by the bay, nearly every other step was met with puddles of salt water that reflected the dim yellow lighting from shattered lampposts.
The interior was hardly any better. Cracked leather booths lined the dour space, each one tucked in an enclave with curtains that allowed some privacy. Yet if the customer choses so, they may keep the curtains open to watch whatever performance took place at the raised platform in the center of the venue. Currently, the stage was empty with only a giant wooden X standing at its center. Handcuffs with dark stains hung limp from the bars.
Not a place for a highborn Patrician such as Amanda.
Sarek kept his hood on while he ordered a whiskey – which offered nothing to a Vulcan but a dull, unrewarding headache and a cover – at the rim stained counter.
The other patrons were equally cloaked and tucked into booths or otherwise sloshed. One man was snoring on a barstool two down from him.
He sipped the bitter drink. He would have preferred tea by far.
He noted the upper floor that offered private balconies for those who required more intimate of a setting. The back hall that one of the two staff members would occasionally creep out to wipe tables down with a grey, worn towel.
When Sarek finished his drink, he stood and left through the front double-set doors.
And proceeded to circle around to the back alley.
Breaking the lock of the back door was easy. He found the stairwell and quickly crept up until he settled in a balcony. He kept to the shadows and waited.
Soon a group of four swept in. Three spread out amongst the room like vipers, and patrons quickly scuttled out of the tavern, leaving behind full glasses.
The last individual moved with a slinking grace to a table nearly below Sarek’s balcony. Short, slim, and deadly, they sat with their back facing Sarek. The bartender crept forward with grey head bowed, setting down a canter and a glass without a word.
It was thirteen minutes past the hour when the doors finally opened.
A familiar figure, robed but immediately recognizable to him nonetheless, strode in and stopped paces away from the sitting stranger.
Amanda lowered her hood. Her pale skin seemed to glow against the gloom. Her dark eyes flickered around, and Sarek stayed still as Amanda’s eyes past over him and the shadows.
“This place," she said finally with displeasure, "is a hovel.”
The stranger did not move to greet her and instead spoke in a strange, yet pleasant lilt. Female. “That didn’t stop us from coming as schoolgirls.”
“But now we have the capability to slink around much more pleasant venues.” Amanda removed her coat and set it over the creaking chair. She adjusted it carefully to cover the stained wood before gingerly sitting down. Her posture was, as ever, perfect and straight.
“Not for this.” The stranger cocked her head “You’re late.”
“I never would wish you to wait on my behalf, but I’m afraid you did not give me much time to prepare for today’s meeting. Cato is suspicious.”
“Problems in paradise?”
“As usual, he thinks I’m out here planning to kill him, or worse – cheat on him.”
The stranger gave an easy one-shoulder shrug. "That too, if you'd like! Though he need not fear. You’re here to serve the Empire.”
Amanda gave a derisive scoff, as the bartender set a thin glass coupe in front of her. He bent so low his forehead nearly brushed the tabletop as he shuffled backwards. “Get in line, Phillipa. My dear father just told me the same thing.”
This Philippa laughed as she lowered her own hood. From behind, Sarek could only see her severely straight hair, as dark as oil. “Amanda, there are worse things to be offered than a whole conglomerate big enough to consume worlds, if not Empire itself. Many would kill to have what you have.”
“And?” She took a sip from her glass. “So, tell me. What horrid offer do you have that warranted dragging me out here?”
Philippa dropped her feet to the ground and leaned forward, elbows resting on the tabletop. Amanda did not flinch back.
“I," said Philippa with no hint of doubt, "am going to end the war.”
A pause. Sarek held his breath, closing his eyes and he focused on where they sat and their voices. “I’m waiting for the joke to be funny, Philippa.”
“There is no joke.”
“Oh, be serious!”
“I am.”
Amanda took a longer sip this time, her dark eyes not leaving the woman’s. She set her glass down resolutely. “No one can, nor do we particularly want to. War is lucrative, in case you didn't know. This war against the Klingons has been ongoing for nearly two decades, Philippa, and that is because we it to.”
Philippa’s accent was almost pleasant, though it did not hide the cutting way she spoke. “Not like this. At our current situation, the war will end in two months with our heads on pikes - lucrative or not. Their fleet has destroyed a dozen of our star ships. Those loses are incalculable and have allowed them to reach the edge of the Alpha Quadrant two days ago.”
Rarely did news about the war ever reached Vulcan. The Empire only commanded Vulcan to work harder – to make more ships, more weapons, more designs. Yet Sarek realized that even here on Terra, he rarely heard concrete information about the war. It was always broadcasted messages boasting of destruction and domination.
To hear that the Empire’s enemies were at their doorstep was quite a concern. Did Voq know about this?
Amanda’s lips pursed. “How could they have reached us so closely? Their weapons are practically like toy hammers compared to ours.”
“The Klingon dogs are narrow-minded, but they have made alliances with other species in their sector.”
Alliances?
Alliances were a relatively rare thing in their universe – both in a macroscopic and microscopic scale. Even Terra and Vulcan’s relationship would hardly be described as an alliance. It was a concession, as most treaties were. An alliance required equal partnership – a concept that even Sarek found difficult to truly achieve.
Amanda thought similarly. “Impossible. Klingons can barely work together amongst themselves – much less with other Xenos. They literally do not have a word in their language for alliance. Besides, all that are left out there are remnants of piracy and colonies that the Empire allows only to exist for labor pools.”
“It seems the Klingons have slipped far beyond our patrols and have found civilizations close enough. They have evidently been quite persuasive in convincing them that we seek to expand and take over. They’re right, of course, but that does not reduce the irritation.”
He had thought the Coalition was the only one of its kind, a resistance composed of multiple species. But it seems that even Empire can only control so much.
“They’re coming from which direction?”
“They need to pass Andoria and Vulcan to reach us. Common tactics would be to take over those systems and put them under their control.” Disgust entered Philippa’s voice. “Yet it is more likely considering their current appreciation for alliances that they will try to reach out to the people.”
“Then the Empire needs to tighten communications as well as – ”
Philippa raised a hand. “Amanda, you need not worry your pretty head. As Starfleet’s Head Strategist, I have dealt with it. Vulcan and Andoria are under Red Alert and Level Four Containment. They are not going anywhere. Not unless we want them to.”
Philippa hummed, cocking her head. “Really, I thought dear Cato would have updated you all of this already. Perhaps you are losing your touch, Amanda. Back in the academy days, you could get anyone kneeling at your pretty little feet. If you were not so infatuated by your little books, you could have joined me in Strategy as well.”
“Forgive me if I am uninterested in the same news about the same war." Amanda raised an eyebrow. "Besides, my husband does not value my company because of discussions about work.”
“How about your father?”
A silence fell. There was always something fascinating about human expression of the face. The way Amanda's face turned into a sheet of metal. He was certain that, for once, it was Amanda on the defensive.
She seemed to realize that as well. Her tone was remarkably cool. “What is it that you want, Philippa? There is a reason you have come to me of all people.”
“I tell you this because I am concerned about the state of the Empire. We were once as powerful as gods, and now, we are squabbling for our lives – clinging on to a mockery of what we could be. I intend to change things.”
“You speak of treason against His Greatness,” Amanda said sharply.
“Such an ugly word,” lamented Philippa. “I prefer natural selection. Our emperor is not worthy of the throne. His mother was a great Empress and left Sato the Empire– but he squabbles it all away. Far too complacent, and more invested in art and music than expansion. If the Empress were alive, she would’ve killed her own son for what he has become.”
“This is fruitless. He cannot be touched – none of the Patricians would allow it.”
“You mean your family?” Philippa laughed derisively. “I imagine not, since the rumors are true, aren’t they? That the Emperor’s life is tied to you all – kill him and the nobility dies.”
Kill him and the nobility dies.
Kill him and the nobility dies.
His thoughts raced. Were her words simply an idiom, or were they something more. The finality, the tone of her voice suggested the latter.
Amanda huffed. “Wouldn’t you do everything you can to protect him if it were you on the line?”
“So it’s true then?”
A pause, and then – “It was my uncle who concocted the idea. Sato locked him up until he completed it and then killed him to prevent the plans from coming out.”
“So, no one in your family has the plans?”
Surely, it could not be so simple? Could Terran's truly be so self-destructive?
“First, you tell me what the hell is happening.”
Philippa chuckled. “You know why I even revealed as much as I did now?"
"Because of my charm and wit, I'm sure."
“Because I understand you, Amanda, dear. You are one of the few I had ever considered to be a friend, and it was because you do not seek glory or fame. I know that you would never betray me for that." She raised a finger. "But you are not spineless – you have ambition. It is just not in the way of mine. That is the kind of person I want by my side. However, I am also not inane so as to reveal so much to someone who has not yet aligned with me.”
A silence filled the space as the two women gazed at one another in a wordless debate.
It broke only when Philippa lit a cigarette and offered it to Amanda, ash spilling onto the tabletop. She accepted it and breathed, the orange light flaring.
Amanda spoke carefully. “I care not for who is Emperor or for war. I only care for my family. I will not be caught up in this.”
“If you join me, I can guarantee your family’s safety and status remain. I will not be so kind to the families who resist me.”
“My husband and my father would resist.”
“Yet they are not the only family you speak of.” When Amanda did not answer, Philippa continued, “If you join me, your dear Claudia can live with you. Not be sent off to some bratty kids school as leverage. And I will not kill your family, even if they fight me initially.”
“What do you even need from me? I doubt it’s my little books.”
“As you have said, your father and husband are loyal to the Sato regime. They also have high ranking positions that would be most influential in fighting me. You simply need to either convert them – convince them to join me – or subdue them when the time comes until they swear loyalty.”
A heavy pause. Amanda stared at her drink before raising it to Philippa. The glasses clinked, and they both took a long draught, neither looking away from the other.
Finally, Amanda delicately placed down her glass. "They have my daughter. I cannot risk her.” The chair slid back loudly against the tile floor as she stood. “I must go. Cato is expecting me.”
“Fine,” answered Philippa flippantly. She did not sound surprised. A clattering noise echoed the venue – the sound of a small object rattling on the table. “Take this holodrive and see just if your father and the Empire is deserving of your loyalty. You know how to reach me when you make your decision.”
Amanda’s pale hand flashed over the table and she left without a glance back.
Sarek silently slipped back out into the alley, breathing deeply into the sharp, brisk air that smelled of salt. He secured his hood to ensure it hid his angular, pointed features. He walked quickly, his eyes swept down the narrow street all the while, as his mind raced.
They were reaching a tipping point, he knew. A moment when the whole Empire wobbled on the tip of decades of one horrible act after another. He may have just witnessed one direction it can go - a new regime, with Amanda at the forefront -
A flash of cold, sharp pain split his cheek, and he snarled furiously as he bent down and reached for his face.
For a moment, he could not see nor think.
The pain was nearly debilitating, the nerves on his cheek wailing from being severed.
Just as he caught his first breath, a pair of heels stepped into his line of vision.
“I quite like seeing you kneel beneath me,” a voice drawled.
It took him an inhale to regain his senses, where he then cruelly crushed any remnants of pain and shock deep within him. Something colder – familiar – replaced them, and he lowered his hand and slowly straightened as he faced his offender. Hot rivulets ran down his cheek like tears, streaking his olive skin with dark green lines.
Sarek felt little fear or surprise, as he gazed down at Amanda. Instead, he felt a flare of anger.
How easily she rendered him to his most basic, primal feelings, and the thought of her seeing him weak was disgusting.
“Darling," she sighed, inspecting her knife curiously. Its gentle, curved edge glinted with veridian blood. "You can be very irritating, you know that?”
He matched her low, quiet tone. His levelled tone revealed nothing of the episode before. “Clarify.” As if it were another day in the office.
She gave a slight shake of her head. It was dark – the only light came from the lamps on the street peeking in. It covered half of her face in light, while the other half was enshrouded in black. A curled strand slipped out from her hood. “You believe yourself to be so intelligent, yet you completely lack in discretion. You are going to get yourself killed.”
“By you?”
Her eyes lingered on his wound with a morbid curiosity. “Perhaps. I have not yet decided.”
“Such a death is as sweet as it could possibly be.”
Amanda scoffed, but she stepped back. Her voice lost its sweet edge, changing abruptly to something sharp. “You do seem to be asking for it after that stunt.”
“I simply came to enjoy a drink.”
She shot him an unamused look. “You can be certain that Philippa knows your identity already.”
“I was hidden. I did not speak to anyone.”
“Darling, you made yourself known as soon as you stepped through the door the first time. That whole venue belongs to her, as well as the workers.”
“Then it is she who seems to lack discretion.”
“She’s Starfleet’s Head Strategist. She is discretion.” Amanda looked around, and for the first time, he saw unease. “Anyone who is in her path gets cut down.”
“Is it wise, then, to involve yourself with such company?”
“I could say the same for you – ”
In a movement faster than a blink, Sarek slipped his hand around Amanda’s waist and strode forward. Her eyes widened in alarm, as her back hit the wall and he stepped in close until he was pressed up against her, ducking his head over hers. His long, black coat blended in with the shadows, and they hid in the corner of the alleyway, as a man stumbled in.
The Terran was old and drunk, it seemed. Too out of sorts to notice the two figures who were watching him. His red uniform and badge labelled him as Security, though only low, entry-level. His collar was unbuttoned, and he reeked of alcohol and cheap perfume. Clearly, he had found ways to entertain himself before making his way home after a day’s work.
The man was slowly making his way down the alley, swearing at some unseeable enemy.
A sharp, prickling pain interrupted his thoughts. Sarek’s eyes flickered down. To his annoyance, Amanda had at some point pressed the knife back against his abdomen.
Their eyes met, suddenly.
His mind cleared – became clearer than it felt in days – as he calculatingly registered her warmth. She was like a hearth in this cold, soot-covered city – the hearth that ate away at flesh and wood, leaving behind more soot and smoke to stain and paint walls.
And her scent…
He kept his unwavering eyes on hers, as he leaned down by her jaw and gave a deep inhale.
Roses.
He breathed again. And ash. She smoked again.
To his fascination, her pupils dilated and swallowed her irises whole, and her cheeks flushed pink.
Suddenly, Sarek was quite pleased.
This woman could dance and hide behind twisted words, but she could not control her physiology – not like he could.
Perhaps this smugness was made clear to her, as Amanda suddenly pushed him and slipped away.
“The old fool’s drunk. He won’t remember us,” Amanda said, with thinly veiled irritation as she fixed her coat. She then straightened. “You are playing a dangerous game – one that you know nothing of the costs. You will not follow me again. You understand?”
He could kill her now. He considered it. It would be easy – she was out in the city streets late at night. No one knew she was here.
But after what he just heard with this Philippa…
No, he decided. He’d need to speak with the others about this turn of events, even if he was restricted from the meetings. The war was reaching its pinnacle, and Amanda may be a part of it.
They would need her, and so, he cannot kill her yet.
So Sarek nodded, but Amanda was already turning onto the street. A flash of silk, and then, she was gone.
He slowly turned and continued down the alley and briskly walked past the drunken man, who had fallen into a puddle of his own red-tinged vomit.
Sarek’s gaze swept across the screen of the blinking device in his blood-covered hand.
File download complete.
Notes:
I know it's been over 2 years since I last updated, and the chances that anyone is left to enjoy this is slim. But as I have more time this academic year and have started to read more like I used to, I began to feel this story spinning around my head more and more. I've been sitting on the enormous draft for years and feel a need to just throw it out to the world lest it rot in my laptop forever.
So to whoever - if anyone is here - please enjoy! Hope you are doing well <3
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