Early in the new Terran year, I was formally summoned to appear as a witness before Ambassador Sarek's commission of inquiry into the Enterprise incident. The official document, archaically worded and printed in black ink on heavy white paper, was delivered by hand; when the young Federation courier held out a padd and asked for a signature as proof of receipt, I hesitated only a moment before writing my name in the elaborate characters of classical Romulan script. That small gesture confused the courier and left me feeling obscurely pleased.
The summons was the first concrete evidence I'd had in some while that events were moving forward. The news reporters had proved unworthy of their name, at least with respect to political developments. And since I cared nothing about the Federation president's sudden "goodwill" trip to some remote Regulan colony called Algeron Station or the latest results of sporting contests, I seldom bothered to listen to their broadcasts. Worst of all, my steady stream of informative visitors seemed to have dried up.
Ambassador Tilendi's absence was the most noticeable. She might have been occupied with preparations for the inquiry, or she might have been meeting discreetly with Sarek, or both, or neither. I tried to suppress my curiosity: I would be told what she wanted me to know when she wanted me to know it.
Elydex and Venn were equally elusive. Sometimes one of them would call to ask how I was, to bore me with some arcane point of interstellar law, or to speculate on the behind-scenes doings and debates of the Federation Council or the Romulan Senate-- both of which bodies appeared content, for now, to express their mutual animosity with rhetoric rather than weapons. For the most part, however, my advocates remained closeted at the Romulan embassy, ankle deep in treatises and treaties.
Uhura had gone to San Francisco, still bent on doing what she called "some detective work." I doubted that she would uncover anything new, since the Federation's technical experts had already taken possession of Enterprise's communications logs. McCoy was, as far as I knew, still in Ottawa, but I'd had no word from him except a note of chagrined apology for his behavior at our last meeting.
Kirk and Spock shuttled between the two cities, conferring with their commanding officers and answering endless questions from Starfleet and Federation lawyers and investigators. Kirk spent most of his free time in a province called Australia, competing in sailboat races which, according to the media, he won with remarkable ease. And Spock, whenever he could, came to me.
Too often his visits were hurried, fitted in between meetings, interrogations, and the occasional meal with his parents, who were once again in residence at their house in the Gatineau; but sometimes he would stay with me for a day or--the sweetest, rarest times--for a night.
"Doesn't your family wonder where you are?" I asked as we prepared for bed on one such night. "And what about Starfleet? Surely they must know when you're here with me. The building guards, the transporter operator--they log everyone's arrival and departure. What do they think goes on between us when you don't leave until morning?"
"My parents would not invade my privacy. And Starfleet--" Spock looked thoughtful. "Perhaps they think that I have come here to proselytize."
"What does that mean?" It sounded indecent, and rather intriguing.
"That I am attempting to convert you to my Vulcan philosophy, and keeping you up all night with my lectures."
"Is that some kind of euphemism?" I truly couldn't believe that everyone who knew where he was didn't make the obvious--and correct--assumption.
"No. Humans have certain ... blind spots. They cling to preconceived ideas about races and individuals, and nothing can shake them in their beliefs. It would simply never occur to a human that I might be your lover."
"Not true. It's occurred to Nyota. It's probably occurred to Kirk and McCoy. And Elydex--well, she isn't human, of course. But it definitely occurred to her."
He lifted an eyebrow at that. "Indeed."
"Yes. She went out of her way to assure me that our privacy won't be violated during the inquiry proceedings."
"I cannot say I am surprised. Counselor Elydex is a primary telepath. Her empathic powers alone would enable her to read you." That thoughtful look again. "For that matter, she would probably have little trouble reading me if she chose to. A Reticulan's psi rating is at least seven times that of a full Vulcan's."
"Their knowing doesn't disturb you?"
"As I have said before, Nyota will not betray you. And Elydex is bound by the ethical code of her profession to respect your confidences."
"Well, I didn't exactly confide in her. But I see what you mean."
"As for the captain and Dr. McCoy ..." He smiled. "Let us say that the image they hold of me in their minds doesn't permit them to envision us together." He touched my cheek, then began to remove the pins from my hair. "In the circumstances," he said softly, "that's just as well."
* * *
Sometimes we would wake during the deepest hours of the night, still tangled in our shared dreams, and reach out to seek comfort and completion. Afterwards, sated in body but not in soul, we rested in each other's arms and told our private stories.
Because we were newly and deeply in love, there was no discovery that didn't fascinate, no detail so small or so mundane that it failed to charm. We wanted to know everything, wanted to feel everything: and when words could not fully convey a memory or a nuance or an emotion, the link was always there to give us truth.
Persons and events I hadn't thought of in years came back to me, brought to vivid life by Spock's unquenchable curiosity. I showed him the child I had been--skinny, untidy, competitive, headstrong. I showed him the adolescent, tamed and disciplined at last by the intoxicating experience of flight: from the moment my reluctant mother first let me take the controls of her aircar, every life decision I'd made had been weighed against one simple criterion--Will this help me to become a starpilot? I showed him my extended family, so unlike his: a sprawling, combative, passionate agglomeration of adventurers and overachievers that traced its roots on both sides all the way back to Planetfall. I showed him memories of my parents and my sister and brother, and tried to convey the deep love and loyalty that bound us all together.
"My mother and father were pleased when I was accepted into the Academy," I said. "My mother especially, because her people have always been soldiers and pilots. But they wouldn't have minded if I'd gone to work as a barmaid in a spacers' pub on Qo'Nos, so long as I was doing what made me happy."
"An exaggeration, surely," Spock said, amused.
"Well, the part about being a barmaid ... I grant you they might have found that a bit hard to take." I laughed, picturing my parents' likely reaction. "But they never pressured us to live up to their expectations--only to our own."
He settled more comfortably into a semi-sitting position and cradled my head against his shoulder. "And your sister and brother?"
"Shining lights, just like everyone else in my family. My sister is a colonial procurator, and my brother is a subcommander in the Fleet. You'd have so much in common with them, Spock. Torryn is a musician, and Darius's first degrees were in mathematics. They're wonderful people, smart and funny and kind. You would--" I stopped the words, but not the thought. You would love them.
"I have no doubt," he said softly, "that I would."
"Spock ..."
"Yes, beloved."
"What is it like? To be an only child, I mean."
Hesitation, and then, as on our first night together, a conscious decision to reveal the truth: "I am not an only child, Aerlyn. I have a half-brother."
"A half-brother? I didn't know ..." In fact, I was astonished; that piece of information hadn't been in the records gathered by Fleet Intelligence.
"Sybok is the child of Sarek's first bondmate. After she died, Sybok came to live at our father's house."
I would have given something to hear the story behind those statements, but clearly Spock wasn't disposed to elaborate. "Do you see him often?" I asked.
"No. He left Vulcan many years ago. I have not seen him since then."
"Your father must miss him."
"If he does, he does not show it. We never speak of Sybok. He was ... a disappointment to Sarek."
"Why?"
"His thinking was never in accord with the Vulcan way." Spock stroked my hair absently. "He believed that the Vulcan dedication to logic was obsessive and dangerously extremist. In Sybok's view, our cultural norms were--are--a corruption of Surak's teachings."
"Well, any Romulan would agree with him."
"So did a number of Vulcans. Sybok had a certain skewed logic on his side. He also had what the humans call 'charisma.' He gathered other idealistic young men and women around him, and his philosophical debate threatened to become a political movement. Vulcan society is highly conformist, and does not look with favor upon such movements. And there were--other things. He was a mystic like his mother, and the kind of knowledge he hungered for ..." Spock, lost in memory, left the sentence unfinished. "In the end," he said finally, "Sybok was strongly encouraged to leave the homeworld." There was a universe of hidden meaning in those words; I was left to guess what manner of encouragement Vulcans might find effective. "No one knows where he is now."
I thought I heard an odd note in his voice. "Sarek may not miss him," I said, "but you do, don't you?"
"I think of him from time to time. He was kind to me when we were young, though we disagreed on many points. He believed that I should ... embrace my humanity." He shook his head at the absurdity of the thought. "Even before the kahs-wan, while I was still a child, he tried to persuade me not to choose the Vulcan path. I did so despite his arguments."
"Do you ever regret that?"
"Regret it?" He shifted slightly and kissed my forehead. "No, beloved. I have no regrets."
* * *
During those days and nights in which we learned each other's lives, Spock's mental touch was light, sensitive, careful not to intrude on or divulge secrets and privacies. But inevitably we arrived at the moment when the most personal and, for him, the most painful story had to be told.
We lay side by side, exhausted and content after lovemaking. My mind drifted, craving sleep but still clinging to the sweet security of the link. Through Spock's eyes I saw my own body; I knew that he found its curves and angles beautiful, and the knowledge made me smile. I moved my hand over the hard smooth muscles of his arm and chest, down his side, across his stomach. "And you," I murmured. "So beautiful and strong." My fingers came to rest on his hipbone. "But too thin. Does your mother worry?"
"Always." He touched my ribs, one after another, as if counting them. "Does yours?"
"Always." If I hadn't been so tired, if all my defenses hadn't been down, I would never have said what I did then. "It's metabolic, I think. I've never been able to gain quite enough weight to suit her. Except once, after sonnaya--what your people call the pon farr--with Tal. When it was over, I devoured every scrap of food in sight for at least a tenday." I laughed softly, remembering. "It was Tal's fault, really. When he told me what to expect, he left out that little detail."
Spock's consternation was profound and uncontrolled. He drew his hand back from my body as if it had been burned, and actually moved a few centimeters away from me. Startled and a little frightened, I sat up and waved the bedside light on.
"I apologize," I said quietly. "I shouldn't have told you that. I know Vulcans are incredibly--I know you don't talk openly about this. But Romulans do, you see. It's a natural part of life."
"I--I did not realize that you--that Romulans--"
"Didn't McCoy tell you that one of my officers was in the early stages of sonnaya? I discussed medication and treatment and so on with him. I thought he would have spoken to you, since you're his department head." And a Vulcan, and unbonded, and his friend ...
"No. McCoy said nothing."
He was now obviously controlling, and taking great care not to touch me for fear that I might read his deeper thoughts. "Spock," I said, watching his face, "shall I tell you what I know? You needn't speak. Just listen." It was clear that he didn't want to do anything of the sort, but I pressed on. I talked for several minutes, doing my best to maintain a detached tone. I explained what I knew of physiological causes and psychological effects, and emphasized that no Romulan, mated or not, medicated or not, had ever died during sonnaya. As if I were reciting a case history, I described in clinical terms how it had been for Tal and me. "We made a choice, Spock," I said finally. "Tal chose not to take the medication, and I chose to share the experience with him. Neither of us was coerced by biology or culture. It was an informed decision made by two unbonded, consenting adults."
He was silent for a long time, avoiding my eyes. Then: "You know that Romulans and Vulcans are divergent species. Because the ... experience was like that for you and Tal does not mean it would be like that for--"
"For you and me? This is how it will be for us, beloved." I reached over and touched his temple with my fingers, calling forth a memory of our lovemaking.
"It is not like that," he said bitterly.
"It is exactly like that. The difference is more emotional than physical." A sudden thought occurred. "And that's what disturbs your people so, isn't it? I should have guessed that long before now. You believe that you will lose emotional control, and it terrifies you."
"More than that." His voice was tight, almost strangled, as if he were fighting to get the words out. "For a Vulcan to act by compulsion ... unable to control ... you cannot know what it is like."
"Then show me, beloved. Show me what it was like for you."
* * *
My first glimpse of T'Pring in his thoughts was deceptive. On the surface, the face was that of a typical Vulcan woman, no more than normally bland and enigmatic. But as I studied his memory of her, I saw that the eyes were cold and affectless enough to unsettle even a Romulan soldier. The thought of such a person mated with Spock, whose strength was grounded in his gentleness and compassion, appalled me. The knowledge that he had been bound to her at the age of seven, long before he could express or even discover his own wishes in the matter, made me sick to my stomach.
Throughout their childhood Spock and T'Pring had met at regular intervals with their teachers, who indoctrinated them in the mental disciplines and techniques that would seal their marriage bond when the time came. Spock, a lonely child, had hoped for friendship from the little girl who was his bondmate. But T'Pring was aloof, condescending, preoccupied with her own concerns. Spock, having no choice, accepted her rebuffs as stoically as he had accepted other rejections and disappointments. Years later, when he left Vulcan to join Starfleet, neither he nor T'Pring experienced so much as a twinge of sadness at their parting.
For a creature so devoted to the virtues of pure logic, Spock had proved singularly illogical in his attitude towards the inevitable coming of the pon farr: he convinced himself that because it hadn't happened yet it would never happen at all. When the first symptoms set in while he was on the Enterprise, he denied their import until he could deny it no longer. The pain and fear were extreme, as was the shame. He would have died--very nearly did die, so thorough was his conditioning--rather than seek help from his human crewmates. But Kirk, being Kirk, forced the issue and moved the heavens to get Spock home to Vulcan. Events progressed to their unnatural conclusion, and on the ancient sands of his family's traditional marriage-ground, in the presence of his friends and kinsmen, T'Pring performed her final act of cruelty.
She must have been planning for years to challenge. Though she could have formally dissolved the bond as soon as she reached adulthood, she chose instead to bide her time and inflict the maximum suffering and humiliation on her bondmate. Kirk's attendance at the wedding had been an unexpected piece of luck: by choosing the weak, fragile human as her champion, T'Pring experienced the added pleasure of seeing Spock, aroused and mad with fever, kill his dearest friend.
Ironically, the very conditioning that had caused Spock such agony during the pon farr came to his aid in the aftermath. Repressing every outward sign of grief and pain, he faced T'Pring with dignity while she coolly explained how she had gotten what she wanted; indeed, he went so far as to compliment her on the logic of her scheme. Only later, when he discovered that Kirk was alive and well, did he permit himself a moment of genuine, unguarded emotion.
I had already guessed who it was that had saved Kirk's life; the ruse was all too familiar. In memory, an agitated McCoy looked up at me from the floor of Eidolon's security cell: The captain is dead ... The Vulcan matriarch T'Pau, who had presided at Spock's wedding, had been as thoroughly deceived by those guileless blue eyes as I had.
Thankfully, that fleeting thought broke the awful tension in Spock's mind. He dropped his hand from my temple and rested his forehead against my shoulder. Every protective instinct I possessed was roused: I wanted to comfort him, reassure him, tell him it should never have happened that way, promise him it would never happen that way again. But on some level I understood that it was too soon for the power of either logic or love to prevail over the primal terror of his ordeal. I put my arms around him and held him close, dimly aware that my cheeks were wet with tears of impotent fury. If T'Pring had been in the room at that moment, she would never have left it alive.
* * *
For whatever reason, Spock and I found our psionic rapport greatly strengthened after that night. It was clear that the ever-present temptation to touch more deeply in mind would soon become irresistible: we were fighting a force of nature, and Spock could not control for both of us much longer. It came as no surprise when he announced one day that I must learn for myself how to regulate the mind touch.
During our first lessons he showed me how to use my own psychic training in a far more precise and subtle way. Where the Romulan adepts had enabled me to build fortresses, guarded by gates that slammed into place and could not be budged by force or persuasion, Spock taught me how to construct a series of individual compartments, protected by doors that closed quietly and securely but that could be opened, when desired, at a touch.
Buoyed by that easy success, I was impatient to learn more. But when I asked for the kind of help that Elydex had suggested, he was skeptical. "It is not like putting on a mask," he said. "One controls physical responses only by controlling emotional responses. The mind-body disciplines are the work of a lifetime, Aerlyn. They cannot be learned in hours or days, even by someone born with psi ability."
"I have to get through the public part of this inquiry with my dignity intact," I said. "The whole Empire will be watching, and it matters very much how I conduct myself. I can't let my thoughts and reactions show openly in front of the humans. Gods of Remus, I don't want to become a Vulcan--I only want to look like one!" That brought the laugh I'd longed to hear again. In the end, he agreed that perhaps it might be worth a try.
* * *
"Strive for equanimity," said Spock. "No matter what images or thoughts surface in your mind, take the positive and the negative on equal terms. Observe them, accept them, move beyond them."
We were seated in facing chairs in the living room of my apartment. Spock, with admirable persistence and restraint, was attempting to instruct me in a meditational discipline so basic that it was usually taught to Vulcan schoolchildren. Thus far, we had achieved mixed results: Romulans apparently were not natural contemplatives.
"I understand what I'm supposed to do," I said. "But my mind keeps wandering. I think about food, and going to the bathroom, and why that wall over there is papered in a different color from the others. And then I feel like an idiot for not being able to do something so simple."
"All these things are to be expected. You are too concerned with doing this perfectly the first time." He stood up. "Take a short break. I want to get something from my kitbag."
My "break" consisted of standing up and stretching my aching muscles: we had been sitting still for over three hours. I was tempted to make a run for the kitchen, but Spock returned almost immediately, carrying a small wooden box inlaid with gold and silver leaf. He opened the box and withdrew a handful of ivory-colored pyramidal solids: each face was engraved with characters that looked like a cross between mathematical symbols and musical notes.
"Those are beautiful, Spock. What are they?"
"They were given to me by T'Pau when I completed my kahs-wan. They are a fragment of an early Vulcan syllabary."
"Really? How early?"
"Pre-Reform, perhaps from the fifth millennium before Surak. It is impossible to date them more accurately." He sounded a little disappointed at having to admit that.
"The fifth millennium ..."
"Long before Separation, when Vulcan was whole." He picked up one of the pyramids and studied it. "I use them as meditational aids in a practice called 'one-pointing.' Vulcan students find it a rewarding method. I think you should experiment with it."
"What do I have to do?"
"Choose an object, hold it at a comfortable distance, and look at it."
"Look at it! Are you serious?"
"It is not so easy as it sounds."
"I don't understand." I heard the impatience in my voice, and knew that Spock did too. "How will staring at something help me to learn how to meditate?"
"You must keep your senses and imagination in check," he said, "and concentrate your mind on the object. There will be distractions, and you may experience odd sensations or even perceptual illusions. These are unimportant; they are merely manifestations of the intensity of your concentration. With practice and perseverance you will have mastered a structured meditation. Other techniques of centering and control will follow more easily from there."
I touched one of the pyramids. "And you work with these?"
He nodded. "I will leave them here with you, if you like. These objects have meaning for me. Perhaps they will for you also."
"You honor me, Spock."
He inclined his head in formal acknowledgment of my thanks, then positioned his fingers on my temple. "Now, Aerlyn. Let us begin again."
* * *
We retired very late that night. After Spock had his shower, I treated myself to a leisurely bath. By the time I was finished, he was already in bed, nearly asleep. I sat next to him, combing out my hair, reviewing in my mind all that I'd learned that day. Spock was a gifted teacher, patient and thorough; I wondered whether he might have missed his calling ... Then, as my gaze traveled idly along the undefined contours of his body beneath the duvet, I wondered something else.
I touched his hand, hoping to wake him without startling him. The dark lashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes. "I was just thinking," I said, "what a good teacher you are."
He gave me a drowsy smile. "You are an able student."
"Thank you," I said solemnly. "But I was curious ... is it possible that the teacher might learn something from his student?" I moved the duvet to one side so that he lay naked before me.
"More than possible," he murmured. "Very likely, in fact."
I shifted position and began my lesson--a long, wordless discourse on trust and love. For a while he lay still, perceiving each light, exploratory caress from his own perspective and, through the link, from mine. Soft lips on his throat, brushing the life that pulsed there. Paired fingers on his parted lips, probing the sweet wet warmth of his mouth. Trailing of tongue from nipple to navel. Taste and smell of his skin--salt and metal, spice and musk. Sight and feel of my unbound hair, still damp from the bath, spilling over his belly. Warm breath, stroking fingers ... and my voice in his mind: Now show me what you want.
Had anyone ever said that to him before, in any context? I could sense wonder in him, and a shyness that touched my heart, but above all a desire so strong and specific that it drove him to make the first sexual demand of his life. Eagerly, and with infinite tenderness, I complied with that demand. Lost and drowning in the sudden ecstasy of a new sensation, he clenched and unclenched his hands in my hair as he began instinctively to guide me.
* * *
Not long thereafter, I discovered that Spock too was an able student. He grasped concepts quickly, and he was exceptionally good at reasoning by analogy.
© 1996, 1999 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.