Tara

Part 2 of 2

When McCoy learned that Kirk had requested and received permission to return to Tara, he was at first speechless and then more than articulate. But he waited until they were alone in Kirk's quarters before expressing his opinion.

"Have a drink," Kirk suggested calmly when the doctor paused for breath. When McCoy began to sputter, the captain went on gently, "Bones, you know what's really bothering you, don't you? I've just had a complete checkup, and you can't find anything wrong with me. Considering the way we've spent the last four years, my psych profile's beyond reproach. So you can't order me around or raise hell with Starfleet about this. Isn't that it?"

McCoy ignored the question, but accepted the drink Kirk offered him. "And another thing. Scotty's been a damn good First. Do you think it's fair to him carry on as though Spock were still alive?"

"I'm not...carrying on," Kirk answered without raising his voice. "And Scotty understands."

"Well, I don't."

"Obviously." Kirk swirled the drink in his glass. "Bones, Spock is there. I'm as sure of that as I was four years ago."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then McCoy asked softly, "Can you explain what you just said so it makes sense?"

"You know I can't." Abruptly, Kirk drained his glass. "It was only a forty megaton blast. The radiation will be long gone. We'll do a complete sensor scan, and if there's nothing, well--there's nothing."

"And you'll forget about this?"

"I'll try, Bones. I'll do my best."

And McCoy seemed to hear a voice from the past: "I do not understand human obsession...." But Jim did not seem obsessed. Just dead sure. And his psych profile was a thing of beauty.

As the Enterprise assumed standard orbit around Tara, the bridge crew became unusually silent. The ship had been in space without crew replacements for four years; with the exception of LLieutenant-Commander DeVecchio, the science officer, it was the same group that had worked with Spock before the holocaust. Standing near the center seat, McCoy was sure that none of them believed that Spock was alive, and that the major cause of their silence was the same tension they had all felt after the blast when Kirk had ordered several additional sensor scans after everyone else knew it was hopeless. They loved their captain even as McCoy did and, sharing his grief, they could only wish that he would spare himself the pain of useless hope. And yet there was more to it than that. Except for DeVecchio, they had all seen flashes of James Kirk at his worst: didactic, arrogant, demanding obedience even though he himself suspected that he was behaving unreasonably. But there was none of that in the captain's manner today. McCoy could not help but wonder whether the rest of them felt the surge of expectation that he could not suppress within himself. The whole idea was insane. And yet Jim was so sure.

"Begin sensor scan, Mr. DeVecchio," Kirk ordered quietly. "And take your time. The Federation will want a complete report on surface conditions as well as radiation traces."

"Yes, sir." DeVecchio bent over his scanner and began his painstaking search of the planet's surface.

It was only a few moments after he had reported the site of Tower City bare but the level of radiation tolerable that he drew in his breath sharply.

"Captain --"

"Report, mister." For the first time, Kirk's voice showed tension.

"Two humanoid readings, sir. Human. An adult female and a small child."

"I'll be damned," McCoy said softly. "Survivors." Then, uneasily: "I wonder where they were when the thing went off."

"Anything else?" Kirk snapped.

"No, sir. Nothing in that vicinity, anyway. They're on the opposite side of the mountain from where the city used to be."

Kirk ordered the science officer to record the exact coordinates and then used his intercom to direct that a landing party be assembled in the transporter room. "Dr. McCoy and I will be there shortly. Kirk out." He turned to McCoy, his expression beginning to show signs of strain. "If two survived--"

"Spock was in Tower City, Jim. This woman and her child...." McCoy's voice trailed off. He stared at Kirk, not really seeing him. "Mr. DeVecchio, how tall is the child?"

"Bones...?"

"I want to find out," McCoy said carefully, "whether the child was in utero when the bomb went off." Twenty-three thousand people, he thought. She wasn't the only pregnant woman down there. His idea was as far-fetched as Jim's, but its implications could be far more tragic. He was beginning to feel a little sick. "A child of less than four would probably stand about 102 centimeters or less."

DeVecchio read off the data. "Humanoid female, homo sapiens, 106.8 centimeters The mother is 180 centimeters--if it's the mother."

"That would make her about five years old," McCoy said softly. "Unless she's tall." Even more softly: "Like her mother." He glanced at Kirk, but the captain had forgotten him.

The sensor scan went on, moving slowly away from Tower City and eventually to the other side of the planet. Time crawled by, and the watch neared its end. The transporter room inquired whether the landing party should beam down without Kirk and McCoy, and if so, could they have the coordinates, please. Kirk answered snappishly, telling the landing party to stand by. The sensor scan crawled on, finally arriving back at its starting point.

"That's it, sir," DeVecchio said quietly. "I've been on a tight surface scan. Shall I check for tropospheric?"

The silence was terrible.

"Yes," Kirk said finally. "Dr. McCoy, beam down with the landing party. The survivors may need medical attention." He got up, moving as though he were sleepwalking. But his voice sounded almost normal. "Mr. Scott, you have the con." For the first time, Kirk looked at McCoy, who saw no grief. No shock. Simply complete and total bewilderment. "When the landing party beams up, leave orbit." And the captain left the bridge, taking over the lift from the arriving relief personnel.

McCoy saw that Uhura was sitting with her hand shading her eyes, and Scott was very pale as he took the center seat. Sulu and Chekov did not look at one another. DeVecchio went on scanning, his relief waiting patiently behind him.

McCoy cleared his throat. "Scotty, I'm going to the transp--"

"Mr. Scott!"

DeVecchio had almost shouted, and everyone on the bridge jumped. But before Scott could answer him, he went on. "He's there, sir. It's a Vulcan reading. He's flying something. A small craft. Aircar. Or maybe a hovercraft."

McCoy was at the science officer's shoulder in an instant. "Tony, that's impossible. You just scanned the whole planet."

"On tight setting, sir. Everything above ten meters was off my screen."

"Are you sure it's a Vulcan reading?"

"Yes, sir. No doubt about it."

"Sutek was a Vulcan too." McCoy turned to Scott. "Don't notify Jim until we beam down and make sure."

"But, Doctor--the poor mon is in a bad way--"

"You underestimate the captain, Mr. Scott." McCoy was already heading for the lift. "He'll be fine unless we raise his hopes and then shatter them. Then he just might be in a bad way." He paused, his eyes holding Scott's. "Please, Scotty. This won't take long. Wait until I find out for sure."

It was midafternoon, and Tara's sun was high and warm in the sky. Jill had dozed off on the sand, and Sarah had carried her inside, hoping that Spock would not return in time to catch her in the act. She knew her strength and her limitations, and was sure that continuing to lift Jill would harm neither her or the child she now carried. Yet she had to admit that it was pleasant to lie in the cool half darkness while Jill napped nearby. She did tire more easily now, and spent most of her time feeling as though she could sleep away the next six months. But that would pass, she knew.

This was the first time that Spock had taken to the clouds since she had become his wife. She did not understand why, and knew that he didn't either. An inexplicable restlessness had overtaken him that morning, to the point where he seemed almost agitated. He had been convinced, and had convinced her, that there was no danger threatening them. Yet somehow he could not manage to stay in one place, and had gone flying in the hope of putting his unexplained tension to rest.

She had not asked him how long he would be gone, not wanting to appear possessive or demanding. Their relationship was delicately balanced at the moment, and she knew that if there was to be a next step, he must be the one to take it. Just the evening before, she had already gone too far; only his control and her essential balance had saved them from a disastrous quarrel.

Initially, she had wondered if his desire to fly today had been triggered by a need to get away from her. But then, just before he set off down the beach to the hovercraft, he came to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. In the moment of silent communication, she had understood that although he was troubled about their life together, his confidence in their ability to resolve their differences was as deep as hers, and that his roving today had nothing at all to do with her. Be patient, my Sarah. All will be well. The deep affection and confidence in that silent message would have reassured her even without the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder and then on her forehead, lightly brushing back a wisp of hair blown askew by the wind.

Yet only last night, as they returned from their walk, he had perceived her intensely human desires all too clearly, and his steps had slowed as they neared the porch.

"Sarah." It was only a whisper. "If I came to you now as I did then, I would not be Spock, but someone else. I would lose myself--even as I did with Leila, and with Zarabeth."

But that's not true! She kept the communication mental, knowing that if she spoke aloud, the words would shatter the still evening air.

"You don't understand," he had said, frowning slightly and beginning to turn away.

"Spock." The quiet insistence in her voice stopped his withdrawal, and he turned to her again, his eyes searching hers, knowing that there had been a sudden and profound change in her mood. She went on quietly, calmly, without intent to hurt, but realizing that the time had come to make the first demand she had ever made of him. "Don't ever tell me again that I don't understand what it means to be Vulcan. I deserve better than that from you now."

If the human in him took offense he gave no sign, outwardly or otherwise. He studied her face, obviously considering the truth of her statement with objective honesty. Then he simply nodded, still returning her gaze steadily.

"And if making love to me now seems to you like self-betrayal, then it would be. I understand that too. But 'as I did then' is a false analogy, and you know that as well as I do."

He looked away then, and she knew that he would not answer. Nor was there any point in her saying any more. Until the next time.

Resting in the late afternoon of the next day, she felt again the implacable impasse of their conversation. And for the first time she realized with total clarity that it was quite possible that she would live out her life mated to a divided spirit.

Fatigue overcame her and she dozed, still half listening for the hovercraft.

When it came, she did not hear it. She woke from a deep sleep to hear Jill greeting Spock in front of the bungalow. Assuming that he would spend a few moments with the child as he often did on returning, she continued to doze, her physical lassitude tempting her toward another nap.

She did not hear his step, and was aware of his presence in the room only when he came close enough to be linked with her telepathically. Still half asleep, she felt herself embraced by the depth and tenderness of his love as he stood for a moment beside the cot, looking down at her. She responded mentally without tension, joyfully and completely, her conscious caution muted by the soft shreds of sleep: You are my reality.

He went to his knees beside the cot and laid one arm gently across her body and his head against her breast. She woke completely then, but not to caution and not to surprise. The confident love that bound them at that moment was no surprise to her, for she had known it was there all along.

His face was turned away from hers, and when she turned her head to look at him, she could see only the top of his head. Slowly she laid one arm around his shoulders and began to stroke his hair very gently with the other hand. There was no hurry now. He had asked for her patience, and there could not be much longer to wait.

At that moment, Jill screamed. And in the next, Spock was gone.

Sarah scrambled to her feet and followed him, her mind filled with horrible images of what might be happening to her child. But although she was not yet physically clumsy, her reflexes were slower than normal. By the time she reached the porch, Jill was already there--whole and unhurt, but beside herself with fear. Sarah could not imagine what could have frightened her so--this child who had spent her life with physically deformed animals and approached a giant insect with no fear at all.

"They've got female ears!" She flung herself into Sarah's arms, shivering, her world turned upside-down. "M-mother, there are some male people out there and they've got female ears!"

Still holding her child, Sarah looked up. Spock was standing still, almost rigid. Beyond him, coming slowly across the clearing, were three human males in Starfleet red, and one in Starfleet blue.

No! She screamed silently. Leave us alone! He was almost--

But she knew it was already too late.

They had been rescued at last, and would never quite be alone again.

The hour that Jim Kirk had spent alone in his quarters had not been a pleasant one. He had spent the first five minutes telling himself that he should not have left the bridge five minutes before his watch was over. When it was over, he began to wonder why he could not feel grief, and commenced to pace the floor. But no matter what arguments he advanced to himself, he could not banish the perception of two realities occupying the same space at the same time: the certainty that Spock was dead, and the certainty that he was not.

When McCoy was admitted, Kirk was sure he was in for one hell of a lecture. But when McCoy's first words confirmed what he already knew in his heart to be real, he could not be surprised. He could only smile.

"Where is he? Is he all right?"

"He's in Sickbay with Sarah, Jim. You'll see him in a few minutes." McCoy put his hands on his friend's shoulders and gently forced him to sit down. "Now listen--"

"It was--Sarah?" Sarah? But DeVecchio had said--

"Yes. They're both fine. They were outside the city when the bomb--"

"But Tony said there was a child with her."

"I'm getting to that, dammit!" McCoy paused, opened his mouth to go on, and then seemed to run out of words.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Kirk asked, deadly calm: "Is it mine?" McCoy nodded. "You knew about this when she left the Enterprise?" Another nod. "All right, Doctor. I'm listening. Start talking."

"She was going to get in touch with you when the grant was over. Three--four months? Something like that. Then, afterwards--I thought she was dead. What good would it have done you?" McCoy smiled. "You have a beautiful, healthy daughter, Captain. Congratulations." But in spite of the genuine affection in his voice, his smile was ironic. "Jim, listen--"

But Kirk put up his hand abruptly. "Give me a minute, Bones." He rose and moved slowly down the room, trying to think coherently. "Did Sarah tell you what she expected of me--then?"

"She said, 'I expect him to care.'"

Kirk turned on his heel. "Care? Is that all?"

"That was all that was important to her," McCoy answered gently. "And she wasn't worried about it either."

"But this child is--a reality."

McCoy was silent for a moment. And when he finally spoke, his words seemed so completely out of context that Kirk wondered if either one of them was thinking coherently.

"So's her sister."

As he followed his captain toward Sickbay, McCoy began to wonder about himself. He was supposed to be the psychiatrist around here--the voice of sweet reason in the midst of what was possibly the most emotionally charged situation he had ever faced. He knew that it was normal for both Spock and Sarah to be disoriented; they reminded him of children who had been suddenly awakened and dragged into the bright lights of a rather noisy adult party. Psychologically, they were both still blinking, and the child was so over-stimulated and overexcited that he was genuinely concerned about her. If ever there was a time to be calm and professionally objective, now was the time. But he was not calm, and professional objectivity was beyond him. The thought uppermost in his mind was If he goes Vulcan on Jim now, I'm gonna wring his neck.

But the fates smiled on him that day, and he was never called upon to carry out his threat.

Because he was behind the captain as they entered Sickbay, McCoy could only imagine Jim's expression as he hesitated for an instant when he saw Spock--bearded, gaunt, ravaged by a severe illness within the past few months. But Spock did not hesitate. Spock moved, and Spock smiled, and McCoy forgot to think about whether he looked human or not because at that moment, there was no duality in him. No words were spoken that McCoy could hear. They simply held each other hard, the dark head close to the light one.

It was Jill who broke the silence.

"Who--who is...?" McCoy turned toward Sarah and the child with some reluctance, briefly brushing his hand across his eyes. But the moment he saw Jill's face, his concern for her obliterated every other thought. It had been a long time since he had seen a thoroughly terrified human child, and it was not a pleasant sight. "Wh--what is he--M-mother, don't cry! Why are you--what is he doing?"

She stood with her back pressed against Sarah, gazing imploringly up into her mother's face as though for deliverance. Sarah held the child's hands in hers; her head was bent, her unbound hair falling forward so that McCoy could not see her face. She spoke softly, almost a murmur; McCoy could not quite hear what she said, but caught the words "captain" and "friend." The latter obviously meant nothing to Jill, but to McCoy's astonishment, she seemed to recognize "captain," and looked again toward Spock and her father.

Jim had already begun to move toward Sarah and the child, his hand still on Spock's arm, which he now released after a brief, final pressure. As he came closer, Jill shrank back against her mother. Jim slowed but did not stop, extending his left hand to take Sarah's right, which she had gently withdrawn from Jill's grasp. Their gaze held for a moment as their hands clasped; again McCoy could not see Jim's expression, but he saw Sarah's smile for the first time since the transporter room four years before.

Was she unhappy? he wondered. Or could there be something the matter with her that the scanner had not revealed? She looked...could she be in shock? But the scanner would have....

Jim released Sarah's hand, and still without any sudden moves, backed off a little and hunkered down so that he could look directly at Jill at her own eye level.

"Dr. McCoy tells me your name is Jill." His tone was almost conversational. Almost. "Is that your name?"

The child stared at him, considerably less terrified than she had been only a moment before, and whispered, "Yes, sir."

McCoy's mouth dropped open slightly. Where the hell...?

Still at Jill's eye level, Jim turned slowly to grin up at Spock, who had moved silently to stand near him. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Spock," he said softly, and Spock inclined his head, hands clasped behind his back.

"Thank you, Captain."

Again, McCoy was immediately aware that the word "captain" was of some significance to Jill.

"Spock says my father is the captain of a starship," she informed the back of Jim's head. "Are you my father?"

He turned back quickly, disconcerted, now looking up at Sarah, who shook her head with obvious regret. "It's just a word to her."

McCoy could now see Jim in profile, and he saw a slight frown. Then, to Jill, with the same gentleness as before: "What does your mother say?"

Quite suddenly, Jill was in familiar territory. She had relaxed perceptibly, and she no longer whispered. "Mother says if I have to go to the bathroom I should ask one of the awful sirs where the bathroom is." Hopefully, and with some urgency: "I have to go now. Are you a awful sir, or are you just the captain?"

McCoy was sure that he would remember for the rest of his life the tableau created by the simultaneous reactions of the three other adults in the room: Sarah whispering, "Oh my God. Jill--", and then beginning to laugh softly, her hand covering her mouth; Jim, again grinning up at Spock: "You teach her that too?"; and Spock, hands still clasped behind his back, mutely shaking his bent head while trying to get his face in order.

"What did you mean--'It's just a word to her'?"

Sarah, her examination completed, sat on the edge of one of the diagnostic beds, her hand again in Jim's. McCoy was examining Jill across the room, and Spock had joined them, obviously realizing that Sarah and Jim needed to talk alone.

"It can't be any other way, Jim. She doesn't know what a family is, or a brother, or a sister. Or a father. We've both told her about you since she could understand words, but she can't relate to something she's never seen."

After a moment, he said slowly, "Just 'Mother' and 'Spock.'"

"How could it be otherwise?"

Again he did not answer immediately. Then, looking directly at her: "Is that the way you want it?"

"No!" She was shocked by the sudden hardness in his voice. "How can you think that?"

He shook his head, almost as though he were trying to clear it. "It doesn't matter." He sighed deeply and took her other hand. "Will you go back to Vulcan to live?"

"Of course." But she could not feel the reality of it. None of this was real.

She knew that he was watching her face, and seeing perhaps more than she wanted him to see.

"Is that where you want to be?" His voice was very gentle now. She knew what he was really asking, and was touched that he should care about what she wanted when Spock's happiness had to mean more to him that hers did. You've had time to become friends, McCoy had said once, long ago. But at this moment it did not seem all that long ago.

"You don't have to ask me that." The tears came to her eyes even though she tried to hold them back. "You know him better than anyone does."

The briefing would be the last before shore leave. It was mandatory; their ETA at Spacedock was projected for the middle of the ship's night, and by morning, most of the crew would be gone.

Kirk made sure that he arrived first. He wanted to watch them as they came in--department heads and first-watch bridge personnel--to get a feel for their reaction to Spock's return.

He was sure that all of them knew that Spock was on board. The official announcement to staff would come during the briefing, followed by another piped to the entire crew. But he knew that the news had already sped through the grapevine; there was nothing he had to tell them that they had not been buzzing about for the better part of an hour. And as soon as McCoy was through examining Spock, both of them would join the briefing session.

For four years, Scotty had sat around the corner of the table from the captain and immediately to his left during staff briefings. Now, watching the chief engineer enter the room with two of his key assistants, Kirk felt misgivings for the first time. After all, the man was human. He had been second in command for a long time. McCoy might be right: Scotty understands may have been a bit facile....

Without appearing to divert his attention from his conversation with his assistants, Scott moved directly toward his usual chair. But he did not take it. Still apparently deep in conversation, he sat in the next seat as though that had always been his place. The conversation ended, and only then did the acting first officer look at his captain. Their gazes held, and then Scott smiled.

"Thank you, Scotty," Kirk said softly.

"Aye, Captain." Scott stretched his arms in front of him, locked his fingers together, and cracked his knuckles, grinning broadly. Now, that grin said. After four years o' nonsense, now I can get some work done.

Kirk nodded silently and then glanced around, noting that everyone except Spock and McCoy was present and accounted for. But there was a great deal of muted conversation still going on. Give them another moment, he decided. The endless, debilitating hell that they had all been through was over now, as was his own private hell. Let them relax for another moment....

The door swished, and Spock came slowly into the room, with McCoy slightly behind him.

In the sudden, echoing silence, Kirk resisted the impulse to close his eyes. McCoy had assured him that preliminary medical scans while still on the planet had indicated that both Spock and Sarah were basically in good health, and that Jill was thriving. Kirk was sure that neither of the adults realized how emaciated they looked; both had dropped at least fifteen pounds, a loss neither of them could well afford. But it was their manner that disturbed Kirk more than anything else. In their own way, each of them was as emotionally shocked as Jill was. He had tried, and failed, to imagine what it must be like to come back into a universe populated by real people after four years of total isolation. Now, watching Spock's thin, bearded figure enter the briefing room still wearing the tunic and trousers that hung on both him and Sarah as though they were stick figures, he wondered if this had been a mistake. Perhaps Spock should have had more time to adjust before having to face this kind of an emotional situation. Even at this distance his pupils appeared dilated, and his face--what could be seen of it--was almost without color.

The silence lasted a moment longer. Then Chief Engineer Scott slowly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, hands now clasped behind him. He was not quite at attention, but his back was perfectly straight, and his dark eyes, now slightly narrowed, roved deliberately around the table, resting for an instant on each face except the captain's. This was his last act as first officer, and it was more than clear what he expected in response.

Almost as one, the entire group--including the captain--rose and stood in silent tribute to the returning first officer.

Kirk had seen him look like this in the past, but it had been so long that he had almost forgotten that look. Spock was not controlling. Kirk was sure of it. Rather, there was an intensity, an almost preternatural stillness about him that was like a palpable aura as he moved slowly around the table toward his seat and stood for a moment behind it. Like the rest of them, he stood tall, hands clasped behind him.

"As you were, gentlemen," he said softly, almost gently. His eyes sought Uhura's. "Lieutenant." He inclined his head very slightly. Then he turned his gaze to his left and inclined his head again. "Mr. Scott." His voice was almost a whisper, and it was clear that he was controlling now.

"Aye, sir," Scott answered serenely, and sat down. The rest of them did the same, and the briefing began.

When it was over and the rest had gone their ways, the captain and the first officer remained--Kirk now leaning back with his arms relaxed at his sides, and Spock with his elbow on the arm of his chair and his mouth resting lightly against his loosely curled fingers.

Finally Kirk said gently, "You better get rid of that beard, mister. It's non-regulation."

"Your assumption may be unwarranted." Spock's voice was calm, but there was a great sadness in it, and in his eyes. "Four years is a long time, Jim. Nothing stays the same. My place may be elsewhere now."

They looked at one another in silence for a moment, and then Kirk said very softly, "What the hell is the matter with you?" Very softly, so that he would not shout it. As he spoke, he leaned forward, his forearms on the table.

He had wondered when Spock would reach the limit of his ability to permit his feelings to show, and for a moment he thought that limit had been reached. Spock seemed to pull away, but then he looked up, directly at his friend. And for the first time, Jim realized the depth of Spock's confusion.

Once, when he was a small child, he had been playing in a field when a butterfly landed on his shoulder. Fascinated at the rare privilege of seeing the marvelous intricacies of this strange and beautiful creature at such close range, he had held his breath, knowing that at that moment, nothing was more important to him than that the butterfly not be frightened away by anything that he did.

He almost held his breath now.

"Where do you really want to be?" he asked quietly. " On Vulcan?"

"No."

"On Earth?"

"No." Spock too leaned forward, and bowed his head.

"Then where?

"It will not happen--now."

There was a long silence during which Jim told himself that what he was thinking did not make sense. And yet--

Tears from the one....

"You feel as though ha--a part of you is still back on Tara," he said slowly. "You want to go back and find it again."

"I never found it."

...And from the other, this?

"Spock--if it's part of what you are, you couldn't leave it behind." Jim raised his hand and tapped the dark head gently with his finger. "It's here."

Spock slowly resumed his former position, elbow on the arm of the chair, hand resting lightly against his mouth. His thoughts were obviously far away, and he was still deeply troubled. But he was not controlling, and he had not withdrawn.

"You don't have to make a final decision now, you know,"Jim said quietly, watching him. "But I want you to stand the last half of this watch with DeVecchio's relief. In uniform. That's an order."

"Understood, sir." Spock rose abruptly, and as he moved behind the captain on his way to the door, Jim silently cursed himself for speaking too soon. Turning his head slightly, he waited for Spock to return to his line of vision, intending to try to repair whatever damage he had done.

With his head turned, he saw as well as felt Spock's hand on his shoulder--a firm yet gentle pressure, the fingers tightening for a moment and then releasing as his friend moved past him and then on out the door. It was not until Spock was gone that he remembered that there was something else he had been going to say.

The passenger cabin assigned to Dr. Sarah Halsted and her daughter had obviously been designed to accommodate a married couple, with added sleeping room for a child provided by ship's stores. Sarah appreciated the thoughtfulness of the person who had made the arrangements, but firmly refused to share that person's implicit assumption. If she had no expectations, she could not be disappointed.

Or so she told herself. But when Spock knocked on the door before entering, and then appeared clean-shaven, she faced a moment of truth that she had not foreseen.

She had been diverting her overexcited child with stories of Vulcan before Jill settled down for sleep--speaking in a calm, lulling tone and concentrating on the stateliness and serenity so deeply inherent in the city where they would live. Jill's eyes were drooping by the time Spock came to the door, and even his presence evoked only a sleepy smile of welcome from her. But Sarah was appalled by the fact that he would knock at the door like a stranger, and when she saw him without his beard though not yet in uniform, she again experienced the despairing sense of loss that she had felt when the landing party shattered their moment of hope. She was accustomed to thinking of herself as the wife of a Vulcan and the mother of his child. But now, for the first time, she began to realize the implications of being the wife of a Starfleet officer--an officer who frequently risked death but very infrequently had home leave.

She watched Spock wish Jill a tender goodnight, laying his hand on her hair as he too spoke briefly to her of their new home. The child was asleep almost instantly, and the two of them moved to the other side of the room where a dressing table was set in a mirrored alcove. Two straight chairs faced one another nearby, but since Spock apparently intended to remain standing (like a goddamn visitor, she thought with rising despair), she turned one of the chairs toward the mirror and began to brush her hair.

"Where will you be staying?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"In my quarters." Spock paused, and she noticed that he looked neither happy nor very well. "I have been ordered to report for duty--temporarily."

"Ordered?" she repeated, watching him in the mirror.

He simply nodded, eyes downcast. Reaching for the link between them, she realized that he was deeply troubled, although she could not yet discern the reason.

"Do you feel well enough to be on duty?"

"I am not unwell."

"Then what--?"

Conflict. Something was tearing him apart. Still groping for a reason, she asked the first question that came to her mind.

"Isn't logical to take up your life at the point where it was interrupted?"

"I don't know." It was barely a whisper.

She dropped the brush and went to him quickly, knowing that he was in more distress than she had sensed until this moment. Taking his face between her hands, she at last understood through the link that his conflict was on two levels, which did not surprise her. But looking from within, he perceived them as one.

Slowly she dropped her hands to his shoulders. "You're right. Your being in Starfleet isn't the best thing for us right now. But Jim is no threat to me unless I make him that." In spite of the gravity of the situation, she could not repress a smile. "Of all the stupid moves I could make right now, that one would have to take the prize. A person's capacity for loving other people isn't a room with walls and a locked door, Spock! It grows as the person grows. You and I saw that happen on Tara. This isn't about 'who.' It's about 'where.' Where do you want to be?"

He drew her against him, his hand against her cheek. "My Sarah, you're the second one to ask me that in as many hours."

She nodded, closing her eyes against sudden tears. "Seems like you're a minority of one. Why not make it unanimous?"

"If I remain in Starfleet--"

"If?" she echoed softly. "Starfleet has been your life since long before you knew either of us."

"We would be apart most of the time," he went on as though she had not spoken. "It is unlikely that I would have home leave even once a year."

She raised her head to look at him, again unable to resist a faint smile, although this time it was a very tired one. "'Aren't you going to say probabilities?'"

Seeing her smile reflected in his weary eyes, she thought he would answer If you wish. The words were in his mind, but he did not say them. Instead, he gently stroked her hair away from her forehead as he had that morning. And when he spoke, it was in Vulcan.

"I accept your gift of self."

She drew away a little, her left arm still partially around his waist as his remained around hers. Raising her other hand, she extended the first two fingers, her gaze holding his steadily, now far from tears.

"The obligation is mine," she answered in his language. And as his fingers touched hers, she knew that even with a thousand light years between them, he would always be hers alone unless she drove him away with demands he believed he could not fulfill. And she told herself that the act of human love was not essential for her as long as they belonged to one another--and at that moment, really believed it.

Alone, she found that she was ready for sleep. But before consciousness slipped away on this, her first night away from Tara in four years, she felt a deep regret that she would never again see the stark, shining Tower against the pale green sky, never find out how Sutek was cured, or what had killed him.

She fell asleep without ever suspecting how wrong she was--on all three counts.